CHRISTIAN
I heard the car pull into the driveway.
I had been waiting.
Not intentionally. I didn’t care what time she came home. I didn’t care that it was late. And I sure as hell didn’t care that she had been out with another man.
And yet, here I was, standing by the window of my study, whiskey in hand, watching as she stepped out of the car, her movements slower than usual.
Even from here, I could see it—the slight pause before she grabbed her bag, the way her shoulders tensed as if mentally preparing herself for something.
For me. And I found it quite amusing.
I turned away before she entered the house, walking toward my desk and setting my glass down. I was still in my work clothes—black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened around my neck. The clock read 1:45 AM.
I too
