Jaxton's car slid past the gate of his villa, the black tires crunching the gravel path beneath. He didn't slow down, not even when the sharp beams of his headlights caught a figure curled up near the stone wall by the gate.
Camilla.
She was still there.
Her knees were drawn tightly to her chest as though the position could keep her warm, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, and her lips were trembling as she pressed them together in a useless attempt to stop the shivers racking her body. Her hair, once carefully styled, now hung limp and tangled over her shoulders. The chill of the night had painted her cheeks and the tip of her nose red, and her eyes looked hollow, sunken and exhausted from crying, from waiting, and from being ignored.
The cold had peeled away every last ounce of pride she came with.
