The music was loud—upbeat, familiar, comforting in a way that only childhood homes and old songs could be. But not loud enough to drown out the shattering silence that followed the sharp click of the front door.
Adam Ravenstrong walked in like a storm breaking through a quiet town. He didn't knock. Didn't call out. Didn't pause. He walked into Sofia's old house like it was his god-given right—like every inch of space, every breath she took, still belonged to him.
Because in his mind—she was still his. The music stopped. So did time. The laughter evaporated. The air turned thick.
Elise dropped the wine opener, her mouth falling open in disbelief. Anne froze mid-laugh, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. Justin straightened from his seat, alert. Aron, calm as ever, rose slowly, his hand instinctively brushing the back of the couch as if ready to shield.
And Sofia?
She turned around with the slow inevitability of someone sensing a tidal wave just before it crashes.
