(Liam Romano POV)
The study door closed with a dull thud and the rest of the world fell away. Inside, the lamp threw a small sun across the desk; dust motes spun like slow, indifferent witnesses. The room smelled of polished leather, expensive whiskey, and that faint thread of lavender Hailey always carried — the domestic detail that had somehow become obscene in a place like this, as if softness were an accusation.
She stood by the desk with the posture of someone who'd rehearsed courage until it became a habit. Her spine was straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted so the light cut across the planes of her face. There was no trembling in her hands. Only an intensity — the kind that arrives after a person has counted every cost and decided to pay anyway. She wasn't the frightened woman
