Chapter 38The silence between us hung thick and stifling like a heavy fog, never-ending. Dorian sat across from me, his posture subtly slack, a whisky glass cradled in hand. His jaw's harsh lines were softened by the low lighting, which also created shadows over his face, rendering him almost human. Approximately. But I knew differently. I had studied him for too many years, too many evenings scrutinising every gaze, every sigh, every flutter of feeling over his features. And right now as well. I could see his eyes reflecting desperation. Levers back into the couch, my fingertips idly running over the fabric of my dress. I did nothing. If he even had a conscience, I wanted him to feel the weight of the stillness, to sink in it, to wriggle under its pressure. At last, for what seemed like an age, he exhaled. He replied, voice low, cautious, "I owe you an apology." I slanted my head in imitation inquiry. "For why?" Before he gently sipped his drink, his hold on the glas
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