A construction crew was currently remodeling the inside of Aria's skull using exclusively jackhammers.
She opened one eye. The morning sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains felt like a personal attack. She groaned, burying her face into the cool silk of the pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of cedar and mint.
She was wearing an oversized black t-shirt. Damien's t-shirt.
Memory returned in a series of horrifying, fragmented flashes.
The sunroof. The tequila. The club. The elevator...
Oh god. The elevator.
Aria clamped a hand over her eyes, a fresh wave of nausea hitting her stomach that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with mortification. She had thrown up in a private, multi-million-dollar elevator.
"I need to fake my own death," she whispered to the empty room.
She forced herself to sit up. On the bed next to her was empty and cold.
