Henry left soon after, the echo of his footsteps fading into the winery's stone walls. I didn't begrudge him the exit.
This was my cross to bear alone. The bottle in my hand offered temporary solace, its amber liquid burning a trail down my throat, a false warmth spreading through my chest.
I drank it all. Then another. And another.
Trying to drown the taste of her—her scent, her tears, her accusations—that lingered in my mouth, persistent and haunting.
The winery was too empty, too quiet. Henry's words echoed in the cavernous space:
"Ladies are like angels. You treat them properly."
But she wasn't my angel.
She was my demon.
The one with the most intoxicating voice. The one who could unravel twenty-one years of calculated control with a single glance. The one who could destroy me and rebuild me in the same breath.
She's crying.
The thought pierced the haze of alcohol.
She started the argument!
