Myra
The walk to the town hall was a study in contrasts so sharp it felt like we were walking through two different versions of the same world. I was still in my heavy work boots and a clean apron, my hair tucked back in a sensible knot, looking every bit the local baker. Beside me, Bentley moved like a dark streak of lightning. The rhythmic, expensive click of his Italian loafers on the salted pavement sounded like a countdown—a metronome for the impending destruction of Jason Thorne’s ego.
As we walked, I found myself seeing Mount Tabor through his eyes, a perspective that felt like a gift. To me, these streets had always been a minefield of jagged memories—the corner near the hardware store where a group of girls had laughed at my hand-me-down clothes, the grocery store where Sadie ha
