The morning wind slipped through the cracks of the old villa on Leona Hill.

Rosemary jolted awake from a nightmare—her breath ragged, cold sweat clinging to her skin.

She glanced around. Adrian was asleep in the chair by the window, his head tilted to the side, exhaustion carved deep into his face. The cut on his temple hadn’t healed.

Damien was nowhere to be seen. Only the crackle of the fireplace filled the silence, faint and fragile like the last trace of warmth left in their world.

Rosemary rose slowly, walking toward the small kitchen—when heavy footsteps sounded outside.

Her pulse spiked. She froze, eyes on the door.

“Damien?” she...