Colten slowly slid down his stiff chair, the clock ticking obnoxiously behind him as his left hand shifted to cradle his cheek, legs crossing. His eyes dragged across the wooden table, tracing the scratches with his stare.

He felt a strange yet expectant ache in his chest, heart beating unevenly from fraying nerves. Colten wished to see his darling spouse, wished to feel their lips press scorching heat into his own chapped ones, their hands in his hair, but his position as viscount kept him from straying to their whereabouts. He’d killed the original Colten and earned the bastard’s responsibilities as well as his nagging mother. The woman refused to stop pestering him about his disappearance for a week. How was he supposed to explain he killed her actual son? Walking off without a word was becoming a frequent activity.

His calloused palm left his cheek in favor of grabbing a drawer, forcing it open and closed until the hinges whined with protest. Colten almost felt guilt for neglecting his secret lover, not like they should be secret anyway.

Another thing he despised so throughly, his baby shouldn’t have been forced into the shadows like a nobody, their love was something to be envied, not forsaken. The old Colten must’ve been an idiot to not notice their pricelessness.