Chapter 91 And Liam Devlin?

• The guest room had a silence that wasn’t soothing, not in the least. It was the kind of quiet that stared back, like it was waiting for her to say something first. Rosie lay there, eyes open in the dark, watching absolutely nothing. The clock hadn't even bothered hitting 5 a.m. yet, and she was already upright, sitting on the edge of the bed like someone who'd just remembered they left the oven on—three days ago.
• It wasn’t the bed's fault. It was a perfectly fine bed, really. Fluffy enough. Crisp sheets. Possibly too crisp. But the air felt thick, like she’d been wrapped in cling film and couldn’t quite breathe through it. Her thoughts wouldn’t shut up. Her brain, ever the anxious overachiever, had clearly brewed five cups of espresso without asking her first. And now it had opinions. Lots of them.
• She rubbed at her temples, as if that would shoo the chaos away. It didn’t. The thoughts kept flapping about like hummingbirds on a sugar rush—erratic, desperate, wild.