The next morning came without mercy.

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Cross mansion, soft and golden, completely at odds with the heaviness inside.

Aria stood outside Damian’s bedroom door, her hand raised.

She knocked.

Once. Twice.

No answer.

“Damian?” she called gently.

Silence.

Her brows knit together. She pulled out her phone and dialed him.

It rang. And rang. Then went dead.

Her chest tightened.

“Damian,” she said louder now, pressing her ear closer to the door. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

From the hallway, Grandma Eleanor’s voice drifted up. “Tell him to come downstairs. We need to talk.”

Aria swallowed.

“Grandma says you should come down,”...