Maxwell POV

The moment my door slammed shut behind me, the silence rushed in—too fast, too thick, too loud.

I leaned against it, chest heaving, the echo of her voice still slicing through my skull.

Devil.

The word replayed again.

And again.

Until it felt carved into my bones.

I stumbled toward the minibar and grabbed the first bottle I could reach. Scotch. Twelve years aged. I didn’t even bother with a glass. The burn hit my throat like punishment, like something I deserved without ...