Clifford’s POVThe night was wearing thin. The chandelier’s glow had dulled, the music slowed to something softer, quieter. Laughter faded to hushed voices, small clusters of people drinking, whispering, flirting. Others had already gone home.And still, I sat at the bar, whiskey glass in hand, my gaze locked on the woman who was mine—but felt so far away.She was at a table, idly tracing the rim of her cocktail glass. I couldn’t tell how many she’d had, but I knew one thing—she wasn’t drunk. Her thoughts seemed far too deep, her eyes too distant, for that.From here, the faint light touched her face in just the right way. I could see the weariness in her eyes, the way her lashes fluttered as sleep pulled at her. Every instinct in me screamed to go to her, to take her home. But I stayed rooted to my seat, paralyzed by something I couldn’t name.This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.I hadn’t married her to torture myself. I’d done it to protect her—from the dangers of my world, from t
Last Updated : 2025-08-24 Read more