Henry pov...
The city blurred past the window—a smear of gold, red, and white, Christmas lights bleeding into the dark. I couldn't tell if the streetlamps were spinning or if it was my head.
I had left the venue the moment Amelia walked away. The slap still stung my cheek. Her tears still burned in my memory.
Now I was in the back of my car, the leather cold against my neck, an empty bottle rolling on the floor. I was so drunk I could barely see. My thoughts were slugs—slow, sticky, useless.
Fuck.
"Was I a fool to have left?" My voice slurred. "No. Was I a fool to have loved? She doesn't even believe me." I slammed my palm against the seat. "Does she even love me, Geoffrey? Answer me! I hate talking to myself."
Geoffrey, my driver, kept his eyes on the road. A good driver knows when to speak and when to disappear.
"No, sir. Love is hard. Love is complex."
Complex. Fine. Yes. Love is complex.
