Zane sat alone on a lone sofa, barely able to conceal the dejection that cloaked him, that seemed to hang off his shoulders like a second skin, as he watched Gianna spring from one end of the large living room to the other, her laughter light and unrestrained, moving easily with her friends, with his friends, with the kids, with the Thorne couple, with the staff.
Everyone but him.
He had never felt so alone in his whole life, not even when his father had died and left a bad reputation for him to carry like a brand burned into his name, not even when the staff at the Whitman mansion had treated him with a formality so stiff it bordered on cold indifference.
Those had been isolations he could name, understand, shoulder. This aloneness, however, was next to none. It swallowed him whole.
He just couldn't describe it, couldn't find the words, only that he felt it—felt his chest tightening painfully, compressing with regrets, with wishes that would never be horses.
