Chapter 92

• Howard's footsteps echoed softly down the dimly lit upstairs hallway of Carter Mansion, the grandfather clock at the landing ticking past 2 AM. Portraits of stern Carter patriarchs lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to judge his every move. His tuxedo jacket hung open, tie loosened, but his jaw remained clenched—a fortress of loyalty unbroken. He didn't hesitate at Anastasia's door, rapping sharply three times before pushing it open without waiting for an answer. The room enveloped him in lavish gloom: heavy velvet drapes blocking the moonlight, a four-poster bed swathed in silk sheets, and the faint scent of her signature jasmine perfume mingled with salty tears.
• Anastasia lay curled on the chaise lounge by the window, knees drawn to her chest, a crumpled tissue clutched in her manicured fist. Her designer gown from the reception was discarded in a heap, replaced by a sheer negligee that clung to her figure, mascara tracks carving rivers down her porcelain cheeks. She looked every bit the wounded dove—hurt, angry, fragile. At the sound of the door, she bolted upright, eyes widening in a mix of relief and fear. "Howard? What are you doing here? Go back to her—you shouldn't see me like this!"
• Howard crossed the room in three strides, dropping to one knee beside her, his large hand hovering before gently grasping her arm. "Anna, stop. Mother's downstairs and told me everything. That slapdash ambush Charlotte pulled? Unforgivable. I'm here for you—talk to me."