When Eleanor finally left, the silence that rushed back into the room wasn't peaceful. It wasn't that soft, salt-air quiet we had in Amalfi. It was heavy and jarring, the kind of ringing silence you get right after a blast. Dominic and I just stood there in the middle of the drawing room, surrounded by the stiff, lifeless furniture she’d shoved around to suit her taste. The lilies she brought in were making my head swim—the scent was thick and cloying—but even so, the house felt like it was finally breathing again. Dominic didn't wait for the staff to show up. He walked straight over to that velvet armchair his mother had treated like a throne and shoved it back into the corner. The sound of it grating against the marble was harsh, but it felt right. He started grabbing the leather folders she’d spread across the coffee table, tossing them into a messy heap like they were junk. "This was supposed to be your space," he muttered, and I could hear the leftover rage vibrating in his ches
Read more