(Sean's POV)
I drive.
No destination. No route. Just the car and the road and the city smearing past — headlights, glass, signs I don't read. I take a left because the light is green. I take a right because the lane is open. I get on the expressway and get off two exits later. No reason for either.
The ledger runs.
Not hers. Not the one she read me in the ballroom — the family, the company, the apology. That ledger is closed. She closed it, line by line, then walked away from it, got into another man's car, and I stood on the concrete with my mouth open on a sentence I never built.
Mine is worse.
Mine is the one underneath. The one I've been filing for six years in a system I designed — headings I chose, labels that made each entry small enough to ignore. I'm running it now. Not beca
