His words hung in the air of the town car, freezing the space between us more effectively than the December night outside. When this ends. He’d said it as if it were an inevitability, a clause in a contract we were both suddenly bound to, rather than a choice we were making day by day.
For a long moment, I couldn’t move. I just stared at his profile, at the grim set of his mouth, at the distant, strategic light in his eyes that had replaced the warm devotion from my mother’s kitchen. The shift was so complete, and jarring, it felt like whiplash.
“What are you talking about?” My voice came out thin, strained against the pressure in the car.
He didn’t answer immediately. He opened his door, the interior light flooding in, harsh and unwelcome. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, his tone leaving
