Outside, the raven-gray centuries-old house stood silent in the passage of time, witnessing births, deaths, and the decay of splendors into ashes.
Delphine's eyes stung slightly; deep down, she hoped he would uncover her past five years, then walk over and embrace her in repentance. Her heart had once been so tender, nothing like the cold, razor-sharp hardness it was now.
The things lost would never return, and the wounds inflicted remained, rising like venomous snakes coiled in her soul on countless damp, shadow-filled nights, tearing into her, suffocating her with unbearable pain.
There was no way for them to return to the past in this lifetime.
So, if Ignatius Leclair believed that she had been with Griffith Squire, then let him think so.
