A tense silence fell over the entire room. Mark froze; his fingers, still clutching Seren's shoulder, suddenly went limp. His eyes were fixed on a worn photograph lying among shards of white porcelain and a spill of tea that was still giving off a wisp of steam. There, on the slightly yellowed photo paper, the face of a little girl stared back at him.
The blood in Mark's body seemed to stop flowing. A blow of reality struck so hard his ears rang. He saw that jawline, the same drooping eyes, and the gaze that held a quiet resilience.
Yet, instead of embracing Seren or demanding the truth, Mark's first reaction was fear. A fear born of a man's ego, unwilling to admit he'd treated someone like trash.
