Dorian
The rest of the flight they spent watching Titanic together. Dorian was content, yet a single obsessive thought kept gnawing at him.
Clara had once jumped into a freezing lake after that bastard, unafraid of death. Could it be that she had felt some sort of bond with him back then?
At some point she drifted to sleep in his arms, her steady breathing soothing him. They landed in London around seven. By half past eight, he had arranged something special: a private dinner inside the National Gallery.
He brought her to the hotel, telling her to rest and change for the evening. Under the excuse of business, he slipped away—straight to buy the ring.
A bouquet of red roses in hand, he arrived at the gallery to check every detail of the preparations. This night had to be unforgettable.
