As her car finally disappeared down the street, Henry shut the front door and leaned against it for a moment, breathing in the silence she left behind. Then, with a heaviness that dragged at his bones, he made his way upstairs to his bedroom.
The room felt wrong without her laughter lingering in it. The bed looked too big, too neat—like a reminder of everything he didn't have. He lay down anyway, shifting from one side to the other, but rest refused to stay. His mind kept replaying the scene he wished he could unsee: Eliana in Rafael's arms, her soft frame pressed against the billionaire's effortless power… and Rafael's steel-grey eyes—those eyes that could cut through a room even while pretending to be blind.
Henry clenched his jaw, his fist slamming into the pillow as jealousy twisted through him sharp and sour. "Why him?" he breathed into the darkness, voice cracking. "Why never me?"
But the night had no sympathy.
