James hadn't slept properly in months.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth's face as the officers led her away—no tears, no pleading, just cold hatred. The kind that didn't flare and fade, but settled in the marrow. It was the last expression he expected from the woman who had once clung to his sleeve and trusted his voice more than her own.
He told himself he had done the only sensible thing.
His mother had been stabbed. Victoria had fallen. Elizabeth had stood there with a fury that promised to make him pay. People in that state didn't listen to reason; they needed distance, doctors, forced calm. He had signed the papers because he was protecting everyone—her included.
So why did his chest tighten every time the elevator doors opened in his mind?
His office was immaculate:
