Elliot's POV
The fire crackled.
Not enough to fill the silence. Not enough to drown out the emptiness chewing at the edges of his thoughts.
Elliot sat still in the leather armchair—scotch in hand, ice long since melted. The crystal glass hung loosely between his fingers, damp from the sweat of his palm. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the dying light outside. Shadows stretched and twisted along the walls, flickering with the flame. They moved like ghosts.
Or memories.
He hadn't turned on the lamps. There was no need. The fire was enough. A small blaze that hissed and whispered, its light brushing over the old portraits, the heavy bookshelves, the pale white of the untouched grand piano in the corner.
"I told them not to disturb me," he muttered, voice low. "Not until she's back."
The words didn't echo. They just sank into the thick velvet carpet and heavier guilt.
Celeste.
The only thing left that mattered. The only living thread still tied to her.
Victoria.
