The fluorescent lights of Wolfe Enterprises’ lobby seemed almost cruel in their brightness as Clara pushed through the revolving doors. The chill of the marble floor crept through the thin soles of her shoes, and the faint antiseptic tang of polished glass and steel clung to the air. Everything gleamed—mirrors, chrome fixtures, the endless sweep of the reception desk—as though the building itself was determined to remind anyone who entered of their insignificance.
It had only been two days since she was last here, but the place felt sharper now, colder, like it knew her secret and was mocking her for carrying it so close to her chest.
Two days.
That’s all it had been. But for Clara, the hours had stretched like a lifetime.
Two days of living at Lily’s bedside, listening to the shallow
