He looked different than I remembered. He had been away in London for the last year managing the overseas branch. He looked tired, his tie loosened, a cigarette in his hand.
“Martin,” I breathed.
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel. He walked over to me, his expression full of concern.
“I heard about the baby,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I… I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry, Karylle.”
Seeing him—someone who actually knew me, someone who had been kind to me in the early days before Danica poisoned everything—broke my composure. A single tear escaped.
“It’s… it’s been hard,” I whispered.
Martin didn’t hesitate. He pulled me into a hug.
It wasn’t like Nathan’s hugs. It was solid. Safe. He smelled like tobacco and expensive cologne. I buried my face in his shoulder for a moment, allowing myself to be weak.
“I’m sorry about Danica,” he murmured into my hair. “I heard she was driving. I swear to God, Karylle, if I had been here, I never would have let her behind the wheel. She’s… she’s a mess sometimes.”
We stood there for a moment, two people grieving in different ways.