DOMINIC'S POV
Isabella had texted me three times this week.
I'd read all three and answered none of them, which was its own kind of answer, and we both knew it.
The last one was still on my screen when I got home from the gala. I'd looked at it in the cab, the elevator, and now I was standing at my window with a glass of whiskey I hadn't touched with the city spread out below me and the message sitting there like something that had been patient long enough.
*Does she know how you found her?*
I put the phone face down on the counter.
The thing about guilt is it doesn't arrive all at once. It builds. Slowly, in layers, each one thin enough that you can tell yourself it's nothing, until one day you're standing in a museum watching your ex-wife's ex-husband cross a room toward the woman
