The drive from the Lacy villa was drowned in a heavy, suffocating silence. Sarah Lacy stared out the passenger window, her reflection ghost-like against the glass as the suburban sprawl of the Southside District blurred past. The rejection from her family shouldn't have hurt—she had expected it, even prepared for it—but seeing the crimson invitations discarded on the floor like common trash had sliced through her remaining reserves of hope.
Matthew Powell kept his hands steady on the leather-wrapped steering wheel of the Mercedes-Benz Marissa Powell had forced upon them. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He knew the kind of silence Sarah needed—the kind that allowed the wounds to scab over. He simply reached over, his large hand covering hers for a brief second, offering a silent anchor i
