"Candice, let's go."
Holly Sinclair, however, paid Tristan Sterling no mind, taking her daughter's little hand and walking toward the elevator.
Tristan was chagrined for a moment. By the time he came to his senses and gave chase, the elevator doors had already closed.
He scrambled for the stairs.
He finally caught up to them just as Holly and Candice were about to get into their car, blocking their path.
"Holly!"
He anxiously grabbed her wrist, his eyes, tinged red at the rims, held a pleading look.
"Let go!"
Holly's face was grim, her eyes filled with disgust and impatience. Her voice was as cold as winter ice.
"No."
He only gripped her tighter, as if terrified she would suddenly vanish. "Holly, let's talk," he begged again and again.
'He didn't want to let her go!'
'He was sick of the three years he'd spent living like a hollow, despondent shell!'
'He knew she hated him, that she wouldn't forgive him.'
'It didn't matter!'
'He could wait!'
