The London fog was like a funeral shroud, thick and clinging, smelling of damp stone and old money. I stood in the center of the mahogany lined study in the Thorne estate, my body shaking so violently I had to grip the edge of the heavy desk to stay upright. The gold pen in my hand felt like a dagger.
"Sign it, Elena."
Silas’s voice came from the shadows by the fireplace. It wasn't the voice of the confused man in the hospital. It was the original Silas Thorne. Cold. Calculating. Precise. He was nursing a glass of amber scotch, the ice clinking softly a sound that felt like nails being driven into my coffin.
"You lied to me," I whispered, the words burning my throat. "The amnesia... the accident... you let me believe I had lost you twice over. You watched me crawl on my knees in that ho
