Three years had passed. The scent of that person was long gone from the bedsheets, but every time he stepped into the room, Hank could still picture Chloe dragging her injured body across the floor, trying to get help.
The faint scratch marks her nails had left on the wall were still there. Every time he saw them, guilt would slam into him like a punch to the gut.
If he hadn't lost control and forced himself on her in a fit of rage, maybe—just maybe—their child would've been alive and healthy by now. But he never even got to see the baby's face, didn't know who the child took after more.
Moonlight poured in through the window. Just the memory of seeing Chloe today made his chest ache like hell.
She used to be wild and fearless, proud like a swan. Now, she wore elegance like a
