Alan
The drive back to the manor was quiet, almost painfully so, as though the city outside understood the heaviness I carried inside. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tight, and yet every time my eyes flicked to the passenger seat, I felt a warmth I had been denying myself for too long. Cyril sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze soft yet unreadable, and I felt the familiar pull in my chest—the one that no distance, no anger, and no interference had ever dulled.
I wanted to speak, to explain what had just happened, but I knew the words were unnecessary. Cyril had seen enough of my life to know the truth of my heart. Susan, the mistakes, the lies—none of it changed what was real between us. And yet, the tension lingered, a fragile membrane we both tiptoed around a
