On the third evening, Douglas finished the last document in his study and rubbed his temples, looking drained.
He walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of whiskey, took a slow sip, then casually asked the butler standing by the door, "Is she still on that hunger strike?"
The butler lowered his head respectfully. "Ms. Stone hasn't stepped out of her room these past few days."
The metal lighter spun once between Douglas's fingers before snapping shut with a soft click.
He set the glass down and headed upstairs. At this hour, she would usually be by the window, zoning out, or curled up somewhere asleep.
Douglas pushed open the guest room door.
The room was empty. The curtains swayed slightly from the breeze. The bed was perfectly made, like no one had ever slept in i
