The Carter mansion had always felt too large, too quiet, too heavy.
But tonight, it felt like a tomb.
Nick walked down the hallway with slow, dragging steps, the weight in his chest almost physical. His shirt was still damp from the rain, hair unkempt, eyes red from a night without sleep.
He paused outside Naomi's door.
For a long moment, he couldn't bring himself to knock.
His mother, once regal and unshakeable, was now a shadow of herself—broken by truth, guilt, and the public spectacle of their ruin. He didn't want her to see him like this.
Like a fallen king.
Like a son who had failed them all.
Finally, he breathed out and pushed the door open gently.
---
Naomi's Room
The lights were dim.
Naomi sat on the edge of her bed in a silk robe, her posture smaller than he'd ever seen. She wasn't holding a glass of wine, nor a newspaper—just her rosary, fingers trembling over each bead.
She looked up when the door clicked shut.
