She turned on the tap.
Cold water ran over her fingers, steady and real. The chill grounded her, pulled her back from the edge of the thoughts threatening to swarm. She focused on the sensation—the water, the smooth porcelain, the faint scent of lavender soap.
For a brief second, there was nothing else.
Then—movement.
Fast. Close.
An arm locked around her neck from behind, hard and unyielding. The force dragged her back against another body—warm, frantic, trembling. Her spine pressed tight against a chest that heaved with rapid, uneven breaths. Her breath hitched, not from panic, but from the sudden constriction, the shocking intimacy of the assault.
Cold metal touched her throat.
A blade. Small, sharp, the edge already pressing just enough to threaten.
"Don't move."
The voice came low, shaking. Not weak—unstable. It vibrated against her ear, carrying the sour scent of too much champagne and something else: desperation.
Daniella stilled completely.
