Chapter 70 Carving The Edge

• The villa was silent when dawn broke over Santorini, the first rays of light spilling through the tall windows, gilding the white walls with deceptive serenity. Ivy stood barefoot on the cold marble floor of her room, her hands braced against the sill as she stared out at the endless blue sea. It should have been beautiful, calming even. But to her, the sight was another kind of cage—one gilded with sunshine and waves.
• The folder Damien had given her still lay on the bedside table, its pages burned into her mind. Eleanor’s death wasn’t an accident, not a tragic twist of fate—it was a calculated execution. Ivy’s blood boiled at the memory, and though grief threatened to drag her under, fury buoyed her higher. She would not drown.
• The door opened without a knock. Damien. Always Damien.