DAMIAN BLACKWOOD
The envelope had weighed like a rock in my hands, its presence heavy.
Vincent's words rang in my head, every one of them cutting through the life I'd imagined. Eleanor. My Eleanor. The woman I loved, the woman I'd possessed, walking away to some nobody's place, opening up for a man who didn't belong to me. The pictures Vincent had sent me seared my fingertips, and I couldn't resist rifling through them, each one a new wound.
Her smile in another's arms, her face pressed to his-it was she, no doubt about it. The panty he'd gotten his spy to steal, that lacy number I knew so intimately, was in the envelope like a nail in the coffin.
I reclined in the café chair, the frail wood groaning beneath me, and attempted to gasp for air through the fury tearing up my throat. We
