For the next few days, Logan left early and came home late.
We existed in the penthouse like two ghosts haunting the same graveyard. He slept in the master suite; I stayed in the guest room. When we crossed paths in the vast hallways, the silence between us was heavier than the shattered Baccarat crystal. I saw the exhaustion etched deep into his face, the way his shoulders slumped when he thought I wasn't looking. Part of me, the part that had loved him with reckless abandon for three years, wanted to reach out and smooth the worry lines from his forehead.
But then I would remember the heavy cream parchment. Yours always, Serena. And the ice would return, freezing me in place.
On Thursday afternoon, I forced myself to attend the annual Metropolitan Museum of Art charity luncheon. It wa
