The house was still—so still that Brad could hear the slow tick of the wall clock echoing like a metronome in the quiet.
He lay on the edge of Amelia’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, the sheets wrapped loosely around his waist. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight poured through the open window, casting pale silver shadows across the room. Amelia slept beside him, her breathing soft and rhythmic, her back turned.
She had curled into herself after their talk, retreating under the covers without another word. He’d kissed her goodnight—gentle, understanding—and slipped in beside her, hoping sleep would numb the ache of rejection.
But hours had passed, and he hadn’t slept.
He wasn’t angry at her. Not really. He knew she was broken—torn between loyalty to the man who shattered her a
