The air in the old Anderson mansion was thick with the weight of guilt, the kind that clung to the walls like the dust of decades past. Ethan stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the pale moonlight filtering through the tattered curtains. The glass of whiskey in Steph's hand caught the faint glow as he swirled it lazily, the ice clinking like a rhythm counting down to something inevitable.
"Do you have to lie to her, boss?" Steph murmured, his voice low but cutting through the silence like a knife. He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Ethan's tense frame.
Ethan's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. "I didn't entirely lie," he said, his voice strained. "Granddaddy's not well. He's just… not in the hospital. The point is, I can't face Mara without feeling guilty. And I can't see Maria right now." The frustration in his tone was palpable, a storm brewing beneath the surface.
