It had been three weeks since the night Knox Wilder stopped recognizing the man in his own mirror.
Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of searching. Three weeks of pretending the stain of Ivy Langston hadn’t seeped beneath his skin.
He stared out the window of his office, the Manhattan skyline gleaming under the morning sun—too clean, too bright for the darkness coiled inside him.
He had called Aria. Texted. Emailed. Nothing.
Her number was disconnected. Her apartment cleared out. Her friends claimed not to know where she’d gone. Even Mia had stonewalled him with a bitter warning: “If you really cared, maybe you should’ve fought harder before she bled for you.”
Aria was gone.
And all he had left was the bitter taste of a mistake that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
The door to his office op
