Adam sat on the edge of his study chair, the city lights beyond the window blurring into streaks of gold and gray. He gripped the crystal glass in his hand, but the scotch inside remained untouched. The burn in his chest wasn't from liquor—it was from everything he had destroyed with his own hands.
He wanted to comfort her.
God, he wanted to hold Sofia in his arms, feel her fingers curled against his chest, hear her call him "Adam" in that soft, uncertain voice. But he couldn't. Not when she looked at him like a stranger now. Not when her silence screamed louder than any words she could've thrown at him.
She hadn't asked for an explanation. Hadn't demanded anything.
And that was what gutted him most.
Because maybe—just maybe—she had stopped expecting anything from him at all.
He raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. "She must hate me."
