The tension in the villa was a living thing, thick and suffocating. For Seb, the next thirty days were a countdown to a rebirth; for Amara, they were a descent into a waking nightmare.
Amara is in the master suite, a gilded cage with bolted windows. Every time he entered with a tray of food, the air seemed to drop ten degrees.
Seb pushed the door open with his shoulder, a forced, pleasant smile on his face. "I brought you some fruit, Amara. And that tea you liked when we were in Paris."
Amara was sitting by the window, staring at the rain-streaked glass. She didn't turn around. Her voice was hollow, stripped of the vibrance he had known for a decade. "I want to go home, Seb."
"You are home," he said softly, setting the tray on the nightstand. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she flinched so violently she nearly fell off the chair.
