Henry's POV...
The whiskey was gone. The bottle was nearly empty, too, its glass catching the dim light from the city below like a hollow, amber eye.
I'd been sitting in the dark for hours. Not thinking. Not feeling. Just watching the snow.
It wasn't a storm, just a gentle, persistent fall, a silent confetti against the black sky. Each flake was a tiny, fleeting star, clinging to the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows before vanishing. Trying, and failing, not to think of her. Of Camilla. Of the way she'd looked at me in the sterile hospital hallway—her eyes red-rimmed, her voice cracking around my name. Henry. As if I were someone solid. Someone she could trust. As if I were the person for her.
The lie of it was a fresh bruise I couldn't stop pressing.
A soft knock at the door had broken the silence earlier. Connor—Amelia's driver, the one I'd effectively commandeered—had delivered a silver tray.
