Today was Julien’s birthday. Alone, Sydney knelt in front of her son’s grave.
The tombstone was cold and bare, not a single flower laid there. Preston hadn’t even glanced at his son once.
The night air was chilling, but not nearly as cold as the hollow ache in Sydney’s chest.
‘My baby… You could have survived if only your father hadn’t given your heart to Chicago instead,’ she thought, her chest aching and suffocating her.
She failed to protect him, and she blamed herself for that.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed over Julien’s face etched into stone. “My baby… those who hurt you—they’ll get what they deserve…” she promised through clenched teeth.
Exhausted, she dragged herself home. But when she pushed open the door, the scene that greeted her ripped her chest apart—Preston and Savannah were celebrating Chicago’s birthday.
The table was laden with food, a cake pristine and sweet, and the three of them wore smiles that seemed to mock her grief.
Preston’s long, elegant fingers shelled lobster one by one, carefully placing the meat on Savannah’s plate.
The tenderness in his gaze stabbed at Sydney like knives.