The mist had thickened into a low, shivering fog by the time Serena Maxwell stepped out of the Winterbourne Conservatory.
The gravel path blurred beneath her feet. Her shoes crunched faintly against it, but the sound was swallowed by the world — the hush of the air, the slow drip of condensation sliding down glass.
Her pulse had not slowed.
The echo of Charlton's voice clung to her like the perfume of the lilies still breathing inside. "You're still the man I loved, and I hate myself for it."
She had said it.
She had meant it.
And now she could barely breathe.
The chill hit her, but she didn't feel cold. Everything inside her burned — shame, longing, disbelief. She wanted to run, but her legs felt as though they belonged to someone else.
She reached the car. Her hand found the handle, but it wouldn't close around it. Her gloves were damp — from the fog or her tears, she couldn't tell.
Then she heard it — footsteps behind her.
Steady. Measured. Familiar.
