Mason Graves
The night was quiet. Too quiet.
I leaned back against the leather chair in my study, a half-empty glass of whiskey resting on the desk beside me. The amber liquid swirled under the dim light, but I wasn’t drinking to savor it—I was drinking to distract myself. The burn of the alcohol did little to numb the frustration building inside me.
But nothing worked.
It had been ten days since I’d given her the envelope. Ten days since I had laid it in her hands, watching her hesitate before accepting it. Ten days, and still, she hadn’t responded. The silence was deafening, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to give. For something to happen.
The waiting was eating away at me.
I wasn’t the kind of man who waited. I made decisions, took action, ensured thin
