The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains of Bridget’s penthouse, painting the room in pale gold.
But there was no warmth in her eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand.
Carson had already left for work, his usual hurried goodbye still echoing faintly in her mind.
She hadn’t slept well. The image of him staring at Anabelle the night before replayed again and again like a cruel film.
His eyes—soft, longing, filled with something she hadn’t seen in years—were not for her. They were for that woman.
Anabelle.
Bridget’s fingers tightened around the cup until her knuckles turned white. She set it down slowly, her lips curling into a bitter line.
“You thought you could move on, didn’t you?” she murmured. “You thought I wouldn’t notice.
