The paper crinkled in Marissa's hand. She clutched the letter Derek had slid under her door so tightly that her knuckles were white.
She sat in her carriage, staring out the window at the passing city streets, but she wasn't seeing them. She was seeing Derek's handwriting. She was remembering his face in the candlelight.
She was still angry.
She told herself it was because he was late to the oak tree. She told herself it was because Carlos had insulted her with his cheap words and gestures and disgusting proposition. She told herself it was because the whole day had been a mess.
But deep down, in a place she didn't want to look, she knew those weren't the real reasons.
