Lori's hand hovered over the door handle.
She could see his shadow beneath the door—broad, imposing, unmistakably his. She could hear his breathing, shallow and strained. She could feel him through the bond, a storm of emotions crashing against the walls she had tried so hard to build.
*Open the door,* a voice whispered. Her own voice. Or maybe Layla's. Or maybe something deeper.
She didn't open the door.
"Lori." His voice was low, urgent, pressed against the wood like a prayer. "Please. Open the door. We need to speak."
Her hands trembled.
Her eyes were already swollen from crying, until there were no tears left, until her throat was raw and her chest ached with a pain she had never known existed.
The woman. The fiancée. The perfect, elegant, wealthy woman who belonged to his world
