His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed. He's done—done—letting anyone pull strings in Noah's name. For five years, he let the world twist the story. And if this message is just another whisper meant to tilt his heart off balance, he won't bite.
"I'm not playing that game anymore," he mutters.
He gets up and returns to sit beside the hotel window, Paris shining softly below him. On his lap, his hands open a sketchbook he hadn't worked with in years. The first page is blank.
But rather than drawing, he gazes out.
Still. Still thinking. Still wondering.
And yet—
That message still on the screen.
Unread again.
Midnight approaching.
Throughout the city, Scarlet stands by the railing of their penthouse apartment, her arms folded around herself as she observes Noah from behind the sheer curtain. He's on the terrace outside, cigarette dangling between his fingers, gazing up at the night sky as if it's posing him the same questions he's been too scared to ask.
