KIERAN BLACKWOOD
I’m driving in silence, the only sound is the soft hum of the car’s engine.
I blink, turning my head to look at Scarlett, but she’s been quiet since we left the ball.
Her posture is stiff, and the silence between us is thick, full of unspoken things.
I feel my body tense, every muscle seeming tighter with each mile that brings us closer to the mansion.
The night has grown colder, and the heavy air of tension between us only seems to worsen.
Scarlett hasn’t said a word since she asked us to go back.
She didn’t question, didn’t fight, and didn’t confront me.
She just accepted it, which, in some way, is even more painful.
I prefer her direct questions, no matter how difficult, over this silence that feels like an impenetrable wall.
I know she’s thinking, Cassandra’s
