Rhea POV
By the time I got back to the apartment, dread had settled into my bones like an old ache that never really went away.
Not the dramatic kind you read about in novels, where the heroine clutches her chest and gasps. No. This was quieter. Heavier. The kind that sat on your shoulders and whispered reminders of everything that could — and probably would — go wrong.
Tomorrow loomed over me like an execution date.
The mask needed at least a full day.
Not just a few hours.
Not something Lucy could magically rush with her genius hands.
A full day to mold the silicone.
A full day for it to dry evenly.
A full day to sculpt every exact detail — Rowan's jawline, his sharp nose, the arrogant curve of his lips that people apparently found attractive enough to develop workplace crushes over.
Tomorrow, Quinn Cortez expected Mr. Rowan.
Not "Rowan is sick" Rowan.
Not "Rowan collapsed dramatically" Rowan.
Not "Rowan's mysterious sister" Rowan.
Just Rowan.
