Isla didn't sleep.
She lay in her old bed—the one she'd barely used since returning from the mountains—and stared at the ceiling until dawn painted the room gray.
Killian had manipulated everything.
Her father's debts. The Kozlov threat. The forty-eight-hour deadline.
All of it orchestrated to trap her.
And he wasn't sorry.
That was the part she couldn't get past. Not the manipulation itself—she'd known he was capable of that from the beginning. But the complete lack of remorse. The casual admission that he'd do it all again.
Like her choices didn't matter.
Like her agency was just an inconvenience to work around.
Around six a.m., Isla gave up on sleep.
She showered, dressed, and headed downstairs, planning to make coffee and avoid Killian for as long as possible.
She found him in the kitchen.
Of course she did.
He was making breakfast. Eggs and toast. Two plates already prepared.
Like he'd known she'd come down.
Like he'd been waiting.
