Morana's Point Of View
The crisp morning air felt foreign against my skin as I stepped out of Nikolai's house. I pulled the soft fabric of my dress tighter around me, inhaling deeply as if I could shake off the strange warmth that still clung to me from the night before.
I needed to leave.
Now.
The house itself was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions brewing inside me. My heels clicked against the polished marble as I walked toward the entrance, aware of the weight of his presence behind me.
I didn't need to turn around to know he was following me.
Nikolai Volkov.
I had made a mistake last night. A terrible, foolish mistake.
And now, I was running.
I forced myself to keep my voice steady. "Where's my car?"
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, I felt his gaze burn into my back, heavy, calculating, possessive. I turned just in time to see the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips before he motioned to one of his workers.
