The door to Nicholas Wolfe’s office slammed so hard the glass panes trembled in their frames. The echo of Clara’s departure lingered long after she was gone, sharp and jarring against the silence that followed.
Nicholas stood rooted behind his desk, jaw tight, hands braced on the polished wood as if the force alone could keep him grounded. He should have been furious—employees didn’t storm out of Wolfe Enterprises unscathed. But fury wasn’t what was burning in his chest.
It was guilt. It was the memory of her eyes—glossy with pain, shining with words she hadn’t spoken.
All afternoon he prowled the edges of his office, unable to focus on numbers, reports, meetings. The world kept turning, but his thoughts had locked onto one person. Clara Hart.
When evening came, he gave up pretending.
