I was sitting by the window, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, my mind replaying the events of the night before. My heart ached, but anger simmered just beneath the surface. I vowed not to shed another tear over Nicolas—not after what he had done. His call last night had also bothered me. There was something about the way his voice sounded. I stared at the clock, as I waited on him. I wondered what he had to say no.
A sharp knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. I hesitated, a part of me knowing exactly who it would be. I opened the door, and there he stood, disheveled and worn, his usual confidence replaced by something resembling desperation. Nicolas's tie was loose around his neck, and his shirt, slightly wrinkled, hinted at a sleepless night.
"Melissa," he began softly, his ey
