The house felt like a stranger when we returned, quiet but tense, as if even the walls knew the fragile balance that was about to collapse.
James didn’t say a single word as I walked through the front door, didn’t demand answers or throw accusations the way I expected. No, he wasn’t the type to lose control like that.
James Sinclair didn’t shout, didn’t break things, didn’t show rage the way ordinary men did. His anger was colder than ice, quieter than a grave, and that silence, that stillness was so much worse than any screaming match could ever be.
"I climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavy with the weight of the conversation I knew was coming". He didn’t follow me right away. He let me reach the room, let me sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in my lap, while I wa
