The city moved as though nothing had changed.
It was almost cruel — how the world continued to hum, to glitter, to breathe — while Serena Maxwell felt the quiet hollow of something breaking.
It had been six days since that night.
Six days since her surrender.
And though the rain had long dried, the memory of it clung to her — warm and cold in turns, like a bruise that refused to fade.
Christopher Cross had not written.
He had not sent word, nor messenger, nor even a polite inquiry to ensure she reached home safely.
She told herself she didn't expect him to. He wasn't the kind of man who lingered. But the silence — that dreadful, calculated silence — gnawed at her more than she wanted to admit.
When she looked in the mirror now, she could still see traces of what had passed: the faint shadow beneath her eyes, the stillness that came from wanting too much and daring too little.
