POV: Maxwell
I was pacing the length of my study, a glass of bourbon clutched tightly in my hand.
The ice had long since melted, watering down the amber liquid, but I did not care. I took a slow, burning sip, the alcohol doing nothing to numb the buzzing in my brain.
The house was entirely too quiet.
I had spent the entire day watching my wife systematically turn into a ghost right in front of my eyes.
Fiona's unflinching apathy toward me and toward the arrival of Camilla was a masterclass in psychological warfare. It was working. I felt completely unhinged, desperate for just one word, one angry look, anything to prove she was still the fiery woman I married.
I stopped pacing. I set my glass down on the desk and rubbed my tired eyes with the heels of my hands.
I could not take
