Carson stood outside Anabelle’s apartment building, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.
The night air was cold, sharp against his skin, but it didn’t bother him. What hurt more was the weight inside his chest.
He had been standing there for nearly ten minutes, staring at the door, unsure whether to knock or walk away.
The soft glow of the streetlight fell across his face, showing the exhaustion in his eyes. He had left the mansion without telling anyone, not even Bridget.
His driver had dropped him off, confused by the sudden request, but Carson hadn’t explained.
Now he stood in front of the one person he couldn’t stop thinking about—Anabelle.
He finally raised his hand and knocked. For a moment, there was silence. Then footsteps echoed from inside, slow and uncertain.
The
