(Grace’s POV)
Dorian Cross.
How could the random boy I saved twenty years ago be Dorian Cross? It’s surreal. Impossible, even. Something that only happens in dreams and dramas is happening to me in real life.
I pinch myself harder, if only to confirm this really isn’t a dream.
I am standing in Dorian Cross’s house.
His penthouse smells like money.
Not the tacky, nouveau-riche kind that tries too hard. This is quiet wealth. Subdued. Confident. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself to the world because everyone already knows.
I stand in the entryway, clutching my suitcase handle so tight my knuckles ache, and try not to think about how I don't belong here.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Marble floors so polished I can see my reflection—hollow-eyed and broken. Abs
