Evening at Cross Mansion was supposed to be quiet.

Supposed to be.

Damian lay on his bed, one arm over his eyes, the other holding his phone he hadn’t looked at in ten minutes. His body felt heavy. His mind felt worse.

Peace. Finally.

The door knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Damian groaned. “I’m not dead.”

The door opened anyway.

Aria stepped in, handbag still on her shoulder, heels kicked off in her hand like weapons.

“Good evening,” she said brightly. “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t move. “Still alive. Unfortunately.”

She walked further in. “On a scale of one to ten?”

He peeked at her. “What scale?”

“Pain.”

“Emotional or physical?”...