James Sinclair
The elevator hummed around me, contrasting the storm inside my chest.
My pulse pounded in my ears, every breath coming shallow and quick as I pressed my back against the mirrored wall, one hand fisting in my hair while the other clutched the note that Sarah had given me—Olivia’s note.
I should have read it.
Any rational person would have. Any sane man would have unfolded the paper, absorbed whatever words she had left behind, and let that guide his next move. But I wasn’t rational, wasn’t sane. Not right now.
Instead, my fingers crumpled the paper before I shoved it deep into the pocket of my coat. Reading it felt like accepting defeat, like acknowledging that she had the final word in this—that she had already left.
No. No, she hasn’t left. Not yet. I could still cat
