The Widow's Son: 9. The Fallout

Morning sunlight filtered through heavy curtains, too bright, too ordinary for the storm that had torn through Caroline’s life. She sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn close, her hair loose around her shoulders. The sheet pooled at her waist, baring marks she couldn’t hide — bruises where his mouth had claimed her, red crescents on her thighs where his grip had been merciless.

The night echoed inside her still, raw and tender. Nathaniel asleep beside her had been almost worse than the act itself; she’d lain awake, listening to his breath, wondering how long before the weight of what they’d done crushed them both.

But by breakfast, he was gone.

Again.

No words, no look back. Only the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the hall, as though even the air couldn’t let him go.

Caroline dressed with trembling hands, layering herself in silk and pearls, armor against the world she was about to face. But armor only held if no one saw the cracks.