By three o'clock that afternoon, the electric high of William's grand return had settled into a quiet, rhythmic hum on the executive floor.
Phones rang at a lower volume, fax machines whirred, and the steady click-clack of my own keyboard filled the space around my desk. But beneath my professional posture, my mind was entirely somewhere else.
I was staring right through my monitor, the text of a quarterly expense report blurring into a meaningless gray haze.
My chest felt tight.
The phantom echo of the gunshot from my nightmare was still vibrating in my bones, and no matter how many times I told myself Julian was thousands of miles away across the Atlantic, the terror of what he had done—and what he was capable of—kept clawing at my throat.
Frustrated, a low huff of breath escaped my lips.
I couldn't just sit here and do nothing. The helplessness was eating me alive.
