The sheets' cedarwood scent was a cruel joke. Chloe blinked, trying to focus through the throbbing in her head. The soft sheets were a stark contrast to the cold, hard reality she remembered. Pain lanced through her with every movement, a brutal reminder of the fall.
She remembered the stairs, the desperate plea to Ryan, and his cold, unmoving stance. His face, devoid of emotion, was burned into her memory. Now, she was here, in a room far too luxurious for the circumstances.
Her gaze dropped, drawn to the crimson stain blooming on the pristine white dress. It was a silent, horrifying confirmation of her loss, a visual echo of the screams that had torn from her throat. She was trapped, injured, and bleeding. The nightmare had only just begun.
The door clicked open, and Ryan filled the frame. His face was a mask of practised calm, but Chloe saw the flicker of something else beneath.
