Victor crossed the distance between them in three steps, dropping to one knee without thinking, gripping her shoulders only to feel how little substance remained beneath the fabric, and when she flinched violently at his touch, shrinking away as though contact itself carried consequences, the full weight of his absence crashed down on him with the force of revelation.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Elena whispered urgently, glancing toward the door as if the walls themselves might be listening, “please, you need to go, before he—”
The door slammed open.
“Who are you talking to?” came a male voice, sharp with irritation.
Caleb Rourke stepped outside holding a phone in one hand and a drink in the other, his appearance nothing like the polished entrepreneur Victor remembered, his frame heavier, his eyes dulled by entitlement rather than effort, and when he saw Victor, surprise flickered briefly before giving way to annoyance, the expression of a man inconvenienced rather than threatened.
“Well,” Caleb said, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes, “look who finally decided to visit.”
He looked down at Elena, still kneeling on the tiles.
“Did I tell you to stop?” he snapped.
Elena immediately lowered her gaze, reaching for the brush with shaking hands.
“Stop,” Victor said quietly, the word carrying a density that made Samuel shift behind him.
