The evening light spilled through the blinds in tired stripes, painting the walls gold and grey. Clara stood by the window, smoothing the wrinkles from the tablecloth for what must have been the fifth time. The small apartment smelled faintly of lavender and rain. She wasn’t expecting company—at least, not him.
When the knock came, her breath stilled in her chest.
Three sharp raps. Firm. Controlled. Familiar.
Her hand hovered on the doorknob before she pulled it open.
Nicholas Wolfe stood there, tall and impossibly composed, rain darkening the shoulders of his charcoal coat. His eyes—cool steel—softened only a fraction when they found hers.
“Clara.” His voice was low, like a secret. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
She blinked, searching his expression for a reason. “You’re here.” It wasn
