Alesia's POV.
I walked down the stairs dressed in a short floral gown, the soft fabric brushing my thighs with every step. It was absurd how carefully I was dressed every morning, as though I had places to go, people to meet, a life waiting outside these walls. As if this mansion wasn't a gilded cage dressed up as luxury.
My fingers twisted together as I descended, nails pressing into skin. My thoughts refused to settle, looping endlessly back to Eliza's suggestion from earlier.
The way she'd said it so calmly, like seducing a man was no different from asking for sugar in tea. The thought made my stomach churn.
I hadn't seen Jericho since that night.
Not since the slap.
Not since he stormed out and left me shaking, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might tear free from my chest.
Part of me had been grateful for the silence. Another part of me—one I didn't want to acknowledge—was terrified of what that silence meant. Men like Jericho didn't retreat. They recalculated.
