Tristan’s P.O.V

I blinked at the cream-colored envelope like it had crawled up from the floor all on its own. The seal was still intact, a golden S pressed into wax so rich-looking it practically sneered at my filth. My hands were trembling as I held it, and not from the cold. No. It was the damn hangover clawing at the edges of my skull, reminding me of the four-day bender I’d willingly drowned myself in.

The house stank like a forgotten bar; old whiskey and vomit were baked ...