The door slammed behind him like a cannon. A tremor rushed through the marble beneath his feet, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't. His blood was lava and very hot. His teeth were ground together. His jaw twitched.
Fuck.
"Fuck." He yelled.
Everywhere he turned, there was Regina. The scent of her perfume still lingered like a ghost in the air. Jasmine and musk.
He barged into the east wing lounge, the only part of the mansion that still felt untouched by her. Cold, gray, impersonal. The windows let in strips of a bit of morning light, but none of it reached him.
He grabbed a porcelain cup from a silver tray and smashed it against the wall.
"FUCK!"
Glass splintered like bones of an animal cracking.
He stood there, his chest heaving and his hands twitching. His phone buzzed again on the edge of the table with notifications lighting up the screen like fireworks at bloody Christmas.
New York Times: Smith Empire Welcomes Its New Face of a CEO.
