In love with my mafia uncle
She brushed past him without another look, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
Hours later, rain drummed against the mansion’s windows. Eric sat alone in his study, the untouched whiskey on his desk reflecting the storm outside. He could still hear her voice, still see the look in her eyes when he’d said mistake. The memory gnawed at him until he couldn’t sit still.
He found her in the library, curled up by the window, eyes red from crying but posture proud and stubborn.
“Kiki,” he began softly.
“Don’t,” she said, not looking up. “I’m trying really hard not to hate you right now.”
Bab Populer