She was only 8 years old.
8 years old and she saw her mother get killed by a drive by. From that day poor Nova has been traumatized and has been to foster home to foster home. At the age of 12, Nova has anger and trust issues, never letting anyo...
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N O V A
Apologies don't matter when they're already too late and dressed up pretty.
I wake up to quiet breathing and the unfamiliar weight of not being alone.
Kai is on the floor to my left, jacket folded under his head like a pillow. Levi's sprawled near the foot of the bed, one arm flung over his eyes. Cisco is closest—sitting against the wall, knees pulled up, knocked out in a way that tells me he refused to sleep until his body gave up on him.
They made themselves makeshift beds around me.
Like guards. Like sentries. Like they were afraid I'd disappear if they blinked.
For a moment, I just stare at the ceiling.
The penthouse feels wrong in the morning light—too clean, too calm, like it's pretending nothing happened. Like the walls didn't scream last night. Like the music didn't crawl into my bones and shake something loose that I can't put back.
I carefully slide out of bed. No one stirs.
My body aches, deep and hollow. Not bruises. Not wounds. Just the aftershock—adrenaline fallout settling into my muscles like lead. My hands tremble slightly, but I tuck them into my sleeves before anyone can see.
The kitchen smells like gunpowder and chamomile tea.
That combination will haunt me forever.
Staff move quietly, efficiently, fixing what I broke. Speakers are being replaced, wires checked, panels opened and closed with murmured apologies that aren't even meant for me. No one looks me in the eye for long.
Mariana stands at the counter, already pouring tea like she knew I'd wake up right now.
"Morning, mija," she says softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
The lie slides out easily. Too easily.
She doesn't call me on it. Just hands me the mug, warm porcelain grounding my fingers. The steam curls up, fogging my vision for half a second.
I don't cry.
That's important.
I think I'm past tears. Past the part where my body knows how to release things gently.
I take a sip and stare out the window. The city below moves like nothing happened. Cars. People. Noise. Life continuing without permission.
Silence on my phone. Exactly how I want it.
Security steps in quietly, murmurs something to Javier. I don't look back, but I hear the shift in the air—the tension sharpening.
Javier sighs.
"A delivery arrived downstairs."
I already know.
A few minutes later, he comes back carrying a large bouquet of white roses.
