A solution. Not a person. Not a wife. A line item in a ledger of family debts.
A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cold cheek. She had to ask. She had to know. Her voice trembled. “Was there ever a moment, just one, that was real for you?”
Damian was silent. His eyes raked over her, from her dripping hair to her cheap, damp jacket. It wasn’t a look of consideration; it was an assessment, a final calculation of an asset about to be liquidated.
“It was a contract, Aurora,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “A successful one. You received the security you needed, and I fulfilled my obligation. Let’s not complicate it with sentiment.”
That was it. The finality of it was absolute.
She laughed. A broken, watery sound more painful than a scream. “You’re right. It was just a contract.” The words tasted like ash.
