A few days rolled past in a blur of restless anticipation.
Although the suffocating weight of anxiety still lingered in the back of my throat, I felt a strange, fragile sense of positivity blooming in my chest.
The gears were turning in the dark.
For the first time since the shooting, we weren't just sitting ducks—we were fighting back. But as the days bled into one another without a single word or update from Tristan Vance, my impatience began to claw at me.
I forced myself to find ways to stay grounded, burying my hands in daily administrative tasks at the office and domestic routines at the penthouse, desperately trying not to look like a woman waiting for a bomb to drop.
William, however, was entirely too perceptive.
I could tell he suspected something was off. His intense blue eyes followed me a fraction longer whenever I walked into a room, and his jaw would tighten whenever he caught me staring blankly out the windows.
