---

---

He made it back to the car and didn't drive.

He chain-smoked. The way she had spoken, the way she had stood — none of it had made him give up.

If there was still hate, there was still love.

He believed that. Six years of marriage. If he apologized sincerely, she would come back. She always came back. She'd stonewall for a few days, he'd do something sweet, she'd thaw.

Six years of marriage —

Hope flickered in his eyes.

He parked outside the hospital that night and refused to leave. Somewhere around dawn, half-asleep, someone tapped his window.

He was sure it was her. He jerked up, hopeful.

Two police officers.

"Wrong guy."

"Damien Thorne. From Manhattan. That's right?"

He nodded before his brain caught up. They opened his door and cuffed him.

"That's the one."

They started walking him to their car. He fought.

"You've got the wrong person. I'm waiting for my wife —"

"Let —"

His voice stopped. He had just seen Seraphina standing at the hospital entrance, watching him.

"Wife? You are divorced. You are the ex-husband."

"Ex-husband who won't go away. Stalking. Harassment. That's you."

He was in the squad car before the full weight of it hit him. Grief on top of grief.

She hated him.

Hated him enough to call the police on him herself.