The click of the latch was a final, cold punctuation mark. Soren remained exactly where he was, his back pressed against the heavy oak door of his study, listening to the retreating, uneven rhythm of Ophelia's bare footsteps on the stone.
Soren exhaled a long, heavy breath that hitched in his chest. He closed his eyes, his head thumping back against the wood. What the hell was that?
The confusion was an sticky film he couldn't wash off. Ophelia's visit hadn't just been an interruption; it had been an assault on his senses that felt fundamentally wrong. The hair down, the bare feet, the carefully timed tears, it wasn't the behavior of a grieving, pregnant friend seeking counsel. It was a performance. For the first time in his life, Soren had felt like prey in his own office.
