Anything involving Sibyl was always important.
She, Molly Harding, would never be important—and would never be chosen.
She was grateful she hadn't let Felix's talk of "the perfect chance" get her hopes up. Otherwise, how badly would her face be stinging right now?
Miles didn't get home until well past midnight.
In one corner of the living room, the suitcase he'd brought back yesterday sat untouched, exactly where he'd left it.
He thought of Molly.
For the past three years, he'd been living abroad. Every time he returned, she would greet him with that eager, ingratiating smile. His suitcase was heavy—heavy enough to make her slender frame tilt to one side—yet she'd still haul it upstairs, huffing with effort the whole way.
The way she used to look at him, all shy adoration. Nothing like this time.
He glanced at his phone. Multiple missed calls, most from Felix. None from her.
He called Felix back.
It took a while before the line connected. "Miles, I'm still working."
"Working with Molly?" Miles was skeptical. The factory situation was urgent, but hardly complicated.
"Yeah. Still at the Industrial Park."