Tristan's eyes flickered slightly, recalling the words Walter Prescott had said while leaning on the sofa in the office that morning—"You're not right for Vivian, a young woman's time is limited, don't waste it."
His tone was calm back then, but every word pierced like a needle, stabbing into the eardrum.
He snapped back to reality, a faint smile at the corner of his lips, his tone gentle and mild: "Nothing much, just the usual advice, telling me not to waste your time and to set you free, things like that."
He paused, his voice softening, "But I didn't agree, and I won't agree."
——
Early the next morning, as dawn began to break, the sunlight outside just started to climb onto the windowsill.
Vivian Sinclair had just reached out to push open the door when she saw Tristan Sterling already standing at the doorway, one hand hovering in mid-air, fingertips just inches from the wooden door, as if about to knock but pausing the moment she opened it.
"What's wrong?"
