Morning filtered in through the tall windows of Hugh Lawson’s office, casting long slants of gold across his oak desk. The light touched everything—his leather chair, the rows of framed awards, the thick rug beneath his feet—but not the hollow in his chest. That emptiness had stayed untouched, undisturbed, since the day Damian died. The headlines had faded. So had the whispers. The funeral had passed, the condolences stopped arriving, and the silence afterward was almost louder than the grief. He stood with his back to the door, one hand wrapped around a half-full tumbler of Glenlivet, the other resting against the edge of the glass pane. His gaze, however, wasn’t on the skyline. It was fixed across the room, on a portrait that hung quietly above the fireplace. Laura. Her painted eyes followed him no matter where he stood, her soft smile frozen in time. God, how he’d loved her. Even now, he still reached for her in his sleep. But she wasn’t what haunted him most. It was Damian. “
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