PART 2: Clara Whitmore slowly wiped the mud from her eyes, and for the first time that night, Richard saw that she was not crying. She was looking past him, beyond the porch light, beyond Chloe’s smug smile, to the front door right behind them. The door that Richard believed belonged to him.

It opened with a quiet, deliberate click.

A tall man stepped out into the freezing rain, wearing a charcoal overcoat over a black suit that looked more expensive than Richard’s entire wardrobe. His silver hair was slicked back, his expression carved from stone, and his dark eyes landed first on Clara in the mud, then on Richard’s hand still clenched around the porch railing. The air seemed to leave the yard.

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