The dimly lit room was heavy with silence.
On the bed, Sinclair lay deeply ensnared in a nightmare.
In his dream, he watched from a godlike perspective as another version of himself—face shadowed with malice—clutched Camilla's slender throat.
"Camilla," he murmured, his voice low and rough, thick with suppressed fury.
"Didn't you promise to stay with me?
That you'd never leave me alone?"
His narrowed eyes burned with intensity.
"Why are you running away?"
"Haven't I treated you well enough?"
"You have," Camilla whispered, her body trembling slightly.
"But your kindness suffocates me. It's too much to bear."
Tears welled in her beautiful eyes, though she fought to hold them back.
Her gaze was a storm of unspoken emotions. "Sinclair, you know this isn't love."
"It is," Sinclair's rationality shattered in an instant, his narrow obsidian eyes narrowing into a dangerously obsessive slant.
"Camilla, you—!!"
