The envelope had arrived with no explanation. Inside, just a single glossy photo. Nicholas sat at his desk long after the courier left, staring at the image until the edges burned into his mind.
Clara.
With Mato.
The two of them sat at a small café table, hands entwined, her head resting against his shoulder. Their faces were tilted toward each other, the moment so unguarded, so intimate, that something inside Nicholas twisted violently. Heat surged through his chest, jealousy burning like acid. His grip on the photograph tightened until the edges bent, veins standing out across his hand.
It was nothing. Just a photo. He told himself that. Over and over. But the fire in his chest said otherwise. He could almost hear Veronica’s voice slithering through his mind, “She’s clever, Nicholas.
