The door was pushed open with sudden force from the outside, the hinges creaking under the impact, and as expected, it was Abigail standing there in the doorway.
She paused for a heartbeat, letting the moment hang in the air, her hand still lightly pressed against the polished brass handle as though she had just claimed possession of the space.
Her beauty was undeniable—dark, silky hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes that shimmered with a soft gleam, and lips curved in a smile that had once charmed many men.
But to Roman, she was nothing more than a ghost from a past that had already been buried.
His gaze, sharp and steady, swept over her, and instantly the weight of comparison surfaced in his heart.
She was beautiful, yes—but no beauty in this world could compare to Julie.
Abigail's features were like finely cut glass, gleaming but cold; Julie's were warmth and light, living fire.
