The echo of her heels on the marble floor was the only sound that filled the hallway.
It was strange after five years, everything still looked exactly the same.
The chandelier still hung above the foyer like a frozen drop of light.
The paintings were still aligned with Damian’s usual precision.
Even the scent — faint cologne and oak was the same.
And that made it worse.
Adrian’s small hand gripped hers tightly. He looked around curiously, unaware of the storm hanging in the air.
“Mommy, is this his house?” he asked softly.
Her throat tightened. “Something like that, sweetheart.”
Damian stood a few steps behind them, watching her every movement — the way her gaze darted, the tremor in her hand, the way she refused to look at the grand staircase.
His chest constricted. Five years.
