DEREK
Cassandra had been floating around the estate like a tragic heroine in a stage play—barefoot, silent, draped in gauzy robes like she’d wandered out of some gothic poem. She made a show of being too weak to eat, too dazed to sleep, too devastated to speak in full sentences.
More than once, I found her reclining dramatically across the chaise in the sunroom, a forgotten teacup beside her, eyes misty and distant, like she was waiting for someone to ask what sorrow weighed her down.
No one did.
At least, not after the first few days.
But she wasn’t doing it for them—she was doing it for me.
Every sigh was just loud enough for me to hear. Every flinch, every half-glance as I passed in the hallway, was calculated. She wasn’t grieving. She was waiting for me to fall back into orbit.
