The biting chill of the New York evening mirrored the cold ache in Anastasia’s chest. She sat in her car, the engine silent, staring at the darkened windows of his house. The last text messages, exchanged just hours ago, felt like cruel taunts now.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather cold beneath her touch. Bennett. The name was a lead weight in her heart. They used to be everything, a love that burned so bright. Now, his eyes were empty when they met hers, devoid of the warmth she remembered. What had gone wrong? What had she done?

Ignoring the throbbing behind her temples, Anastasia finally pushed open the car door. The crisp air did little to clear her mind. She walked up the familiar path, past manicured hedges, and through the unlocked front door. The silence inside the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the usual vibrant chaos Bennett brought. She knew her way, her feet carrying her instinctively towards his room.

Taking a shaky breath, she flared open his bedroom door, ready to demand answers. But the room was spotless, the bed perfectly made. He wasn't here. A cruel trick. Her heart lurched, a sickening realization blooming in her chest. He had lied. Tears, hot and furious, welled in her eyes, blurring the pristine room. She spun on her heel, a choked sob escaping her lips, and ran. Down the stairs, her feet pounding, a desperate need to escape this place, to erase him from her memory, from her life. She reached the sitting room, about to burst through the front door, when she stopped dead. Her breath hitched. A figure stood in the room, impossibly tall, undeniably male, and completely, shockingly naked. Denver Harper. Bennett's father. "Holy shit," she whispered, her tear-filled eyes widening.