The light hurt.
Seraphina squeezed her eyes shut against the morning sun cutting through her office windows, but it didn't help. The headache had started the second her alarm went off at five-thirty—a dull, persistent throb that wrapped around her skull like a vice—and it hadn't stopped since.
She pressed her fingers hard against her temples, trying to massage it away, but all that did was make her more aware of how little she'd slept. Three hours, maybe four. The rest of the night she'd spent staring at the hotel ceiling, her mind refusing to shut up, replaying every second of last night on an endless loop she couldn't stop.
The interview. Alexander's hand in hers. The way he'd defended her with that ice-cold fury that should have scared her but didn't.
And after. God, after.
The photo shoot.
