Emma stretched lazily, her body sinking deeper into the plush mattress. For the first time in days, she felt refreshed. Despite everything, the familiarity of the Whitmore mansion—had brought an odd sense of comfort.
"Guess I can't complain about the perks," she muttered, sitting up and letting her gaze sweep across the large room.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Whitmore," a maid called from the other side. "Your father is waiting for you at the dining table."
Emma groaned, flopping back on the bed. "Of course, he is," she mumbled. After a moment, she forced herself up and dressed in one of the elegant outfits hanging in the wardrobe. It seemed no one expected her to wear jeans in this world.
When she walked into the dining room, Allan Whitmore was already seated. He was impeccably dressed as always, a picture of cold authority.
"You're late," he said without looking up from his coffee.
