Consciousness returned in slow waves. First came the dull ache—a deep, bone-deep exhaustion that settled in my limbs like lead. Then the sterile scent of antiseptic, mixing faintly with something richer, something expensive. My fingers twitched against fine sheets, smoother than any hospital bed should have been.
I cracked an eye open.
A dimly lit room. Ornate furniture. A chandelier that gleamed in the low light. This wasn't a hospital. This was luxury wrapped in pretense, a throne room disguised as a convalescence ward.
Vincent Giovanni's estate.
A figure sat beside me, her face partially obscured by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Alexis. She wasn't hunched over medical notes, wasn't moving with her usual clinical efficiency. Instead, she was watching me, a deep furrow in her brow, her fingers pressing into the edge of the mattress. Her eyes—sharp, calculating, always searching—were softer now.
"You're awake," she said, her voice quieter than usual.
