16
Alex sat on a stone bench in the middle of the garden in her father’s house in Lothbrook, holding a book in her hands. It was a rather boring collection of philosophical essays, but she wasn’t really reading it. She was staring at the pages until the letters blurred together, and she was lost in thoughts and memories of Ambrose.
Since she had left London, she had expected to feel less pain, but she hadn’t. The wounds in her chest, although invisible, were still there, raw, and as exposed as they had been the morning she’d discovered Ambrose’s betrayal.
She blinked back tears and glanced toward the house when her father came out, her mother on his arm. The two had become closer after Alex’s ruination. She supposed it was a silver lining to the host of gray clouds thundering above her
