The irony was delicious, almost obscene. For weeks, he had played the part of the composed professional, the intellectual equal, the steady hand.
He had endured Tyler, the boy's incessant energy, his predictable questions, and the way he seemed to occupy space in a way that was both exhausting and mildly irritating.
At times, Mike had genuinely felt a flicker of revulsion at having to navigate around the kid and a mild nausea at the forced domesticity of their interactions.
But now, as he followed the ghost of Aveline's perfume up the darkened corridor, that irritation had transmuted into something far more potent: satisfaction.
'All that patience, all that careful maneuvering,' he mused, his teeth grazing the inside of his cheek. 'And it all leads here...'
'To the mother... To the prize that makes the annoyance of the son entirely worth the effort...'
