Clyde's boots pounded against the marble floor, the sound echoing down the long hallway like the drumbeat of dread. His chest ached. Not from the run, but from the storm of emotions threatening to crack him open from the inside, from imagining what Vyan must be feeling right now.
He had quit as Vyan's aide.
But not as his friend.
Never as his friend.
And that's why he was here.
When he reached the tall double doors of Vyan's office, he didn't barge in like he used to. This time, for the first time, he… hesitated.
His hand hovered over the door handle. Fingers clenched. The air felt too heavy. Like the aftermath of something that should never have happened.
Clyde raised his hand and knocked, the sound surprisingly soft and uncertain.
No response.
So he turned the handle gently and pushed the doors open.
And there, in the center of the grand office, stood the Grand Duke of Ashstone—his back to the door, shoulders rising and falling with sharp, furious breaths.
