The Dream of a Dying Swan
However, I knew who it was from.
After the performance, Dean draped a soft cashmere coat over my shoulders, and we walked side by side along the river. The night wind lifted my hair, carrying the quiet romance unique to Parise.
“Are you really not going back?” he asked softly.
Behind his glasses, his eyes reflected the shimmering lights on the river.
I looked toward the Grand Tower glowing in the distance and slowly shook my head. “There’s nothing left for me there anymore.”
Everything from the past—the love, hatred, and obsession—had been buried with that press conference, deep in Cloud City.
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