The carriage ride back to the estate was suffocatingly silent.
Darius sat opposite me, his gaze fixed on the documents in his lap, but I knew he wasn't reading. The air between us was thick with the unspoken, with the knowledge I now held and the weapon he had given me. It had changed the very chemistry of our shared space.
I stared out the window, watching the capital's streets blur past, but all I could see was Harren's smug face, the memory of his voice now layered with the chilling truth from that file. He had been there. He had helped orchestrate a murder and called it an accident.
The carriage hit a slight bump, and my hand clenched into a fist on my knee. A raw, violent impulse surged through me—to turn the carriage around, find Harren, and force a confession with my hands around his throat.
"You're thinking about him," Darius said. It wasn't a question. His voice was quiet, cutting through my thoughts like a blade.
