Kendrick
I sat in my study long after the embers in the hearth had died down, a glass of whiskey untouched in my hand. The silence was no longer comfortable. It felt like a punishment now, the kind that stretched on without end. I’d written her a letter—carefully, painfully honest—laid out every option I could think of for her. And then, I stepped back. Gave her space.
For the first time in my life, I was doing nothing.
And it was killing me.
All I could think about was her—the way she looked at me with those guarded eyes, always calculating, always wary. I didn’t blame her. How could I? I’d earned every ounce of her suspicion, every flinch when I raised my voice, every step she took away from me instead of toward me. But watching her walk into the garden earlier, envelope in hand, ha
