The words from Connor still rang in my ears, even after I had stumbled back to my own apartment. It felt empty, a cavern of silence where laughter and music used to be. The lingering scent of Jorden' s cologne, Garrick' s expensive coffee, and Connor' s subtle, earthy scent, all seemed to mock me.

I walked into the living room, my legs stiff and sore. The fireplace was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth that used to emanate from it. Garrick, always the practical one, had a habit of rising early to light it, no matter how much I complained about the smoke. I missed the smell of pine and burning wood.

My fingers, still raw from digging into my dress, reached for a log. I tried to place it in the grate, but my hand slipped. The edge of the wood scratched my skin, a thin line of red appearing on my palm.

I winced, my lip trembling, a familiar whimper bubbling up from my throat. My usual reaction: immediate outrage, followed by a pout, knowing one of them would rush to my side, fussing, kissing the boo-boo away.

But no one came. The silence was absolute, suffocating. I was truly alone. The realization hit me like a physical blow. There was no one here to soothe me, no one to care if I got a scratch, no one to even notice. My nails dug into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the hollowness.

I sprang to my feet, a wild, desperate energy coursing through me. I had to go. I couldn' t stay here, not in this mausoleum of broken promises. I bolted for the door, not knowing where I was going, just knowing I had to run.

I ran through the city streets, the brutal New York winter air biting at my exposed skin. My designer coat, once a symbol of luxury, felt thin and useless against the cold. I stumbled, my expensive shoes scraping on the unforgiving pavement. My knees, already bruised from my earlier fall, protested with sharp aches. I fell again, sprawling on the cold concrete, but I didn' t care. I just pushed myself up, scrambling, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I didn' t know how long I ran, or how far. My vision blurred from tears and exhaustion. Finally, I found myself in front of a familiar brownstone, its windows dark. I pounded on the heavy oak door, my fists raw, my knuckles aching.

The door creaked open.

It wasn't Connor. It was Garrick.

He stood there, still impeccably dressed, even at this late hour. His eyes, usually so composed, widened in a flicker of surprise when he saw me. His gaze dropped to my bloodied knees, then to my frantic, disheveled appearance. His face was unreadable, a complex mask of emotions I couldn't decipher.

"Crystal?" he asked, his voice low, a hint of caution in it. "What are you doing here?"

I remembered Garrick. He was the one who always took care of things. The one who'd calmly cleaned up my messes, no matter how extravagant or embarrassing. I'd once thrown a vase at a gallery owner because he snubbed my art, and Garrick, with that cool, pragmatic efficiency of his, had smoothed everything over, written a check, and somehow made me feel like I was the victim. He' d scold me, his voice firm, but then I' d catch him later, looking at me with a tenderness he tried to hide, sometimes even stealing a quick kiss on my forehead when he thought I wasn't looking. He was the stern but devoted one.

Now, I couldn't even look at him. My eyes darted past him, into the warm, inviting entryway. I was looking for someone else.

Garrick' s jaw visibly tightened. His hand clenched around the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. He saw my desperate search, and a harsh, humorless laugh escaped him.

"He's not here, Crystal," Garrick said, his voice dripping with an icy sarcasm. He then raised his voice slightly, calling into the quiet house, "Connor! Your little pet hasn't quite learned to cut ties cleanly!" He paused, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Wouldn't want Andrea to find out, would we?"

A shiver ran through me, colder than the biting wind that whipped around my thin coat. My face felt pale, bloodless.

Then Connor appeared. He walked out from the inner rooms, his dark hair tousled, his shirt untucked. His eyes, usually so clear, were still heavy with sleep.

My gaze locked onto his neck. There, just above the collar of his shirt, was a fresh bite mark. A small, angry red crescent. It was unmistakable.

My stomach churned. The very air felt thin, suffocating.

Connor' s eyes flickered from Garrick to me, a flash of annoyance clouding their depths before he smoothed it away. He looked at me, really looked at me, and a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over his face.

The cold that had started in my bones now seeped into my very soul.

Chapter 3

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