Where was Sandro? Zane mused, glancing again at his wristwatch.
8:45 p.m.
His brows creased faintly. Did his friend forget they were meeting tonight to drink away their sorrows?
He sighed deeply, shoulders sagging a little, and picked up the glass before him. But, like the other times he had attempted it tonight, he couldn't bring himself to drink it.
Last night still left a ringing hollow within him, some kind of lingering trauma that clung to his chest. He wouldn't drink again, not without his friend close by.
He looked at his wristwatch again, jaw tensing. Ten minutes more, he decided silently. Ten minutes more and he would be out of here. After all, he had work to do at home.
At home.
His lips curved into a humorless line. He was thinking of moving out of there.
He could suddenly understand why Ewan had stopped staying at his own mansion when things had started going south; the coldness—one that had nothing to do with actual temperature—was starting to get to him.
