Hera Lightwood's P.O.V.

When I woke up, I was sure last night had just been a bad dream. Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed and saw the champagne bottle and glass on my floor, frowning as memories of last night clawed at the edges of my brain.

I steeled myself and tiptoed into the hall. The house was totally quiet. Jace's bedroom door was mostly shut, and I rushed past it. A Post-it note was stuck to the coffeemaker, Jace's messy handwritten scrawled across the paper.

 

We need to talk.

 

Four little words shouldn’t have had the ability to make me break out in hives,...