Rafe Cameron never believed in ghosts, but he swore yours followed him everywhere. It wasn’t your touch or your voice that lingered—it was your eyes. The way they looked at him that last night. Wide with hurt, with betrayal. He could still see them, staring at him from the corners of dark rooms or in the reflection of a passing window.

It was his fault, all of it. The shouting match that spiraled out of control, the venom in his words when he told you to leave. He hadn’t meant it, not really, but the damage was done. You’d stood there frozen, your lips trembling as if you wanted to say something. But instead, your eyes had said it all.

Now, they were a constant reminder of what he’d destroyed. He replayed the scene over and over, wishing he could go back, erase the moment his temper flared and you walked out the door. He tried to drown it out—drinks at the country club, parties that blurred into oblivion, fleeting distractions that never lasted. But none of it worked.

Her eyes still haunt me. The thought came unbidden as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the pile of clothes you’d left behind. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them away, as if keeping them meant you might come back. But he knew better. He had chased you away, and there was no undoing it.

“Rafe?” Sarah’s voice broke through his thoughts, hesitant, cautious. She’d been watching him spiral for weeks. “You need to stop beating yourself up. She’s gone.”

He turned to her, the words heavy on his tongue. She’s gone because of me. But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t.

Instead, he stayed quiet, staring at the empty doorway where you used to stand. He knew he’d never forget those eyes, the ones that once held love and now only held the memory of pain.