Morrison carried the cake down the stairs, the box dangling heavy in his hand like a burden he hadn't asked for. At the entrance, he froze.
Bert was waiting.
Of course he was.
Morrison's brows furrowed at once. He had no patience for this madman. God knew what kind of sick stunt Bert would pull next. So he did the simplest thing—he pretended not to see him, turned away, and headed for his car.
But Bert was never going to let him leave.
He had been waiting here on purpose, watching, calculating. Last night, Morrison's reaction had given him all the proof he needed—Morrison cared. Exactly how much, Bert didn't know yet. But enough. Enough to sting. Enough to make this game worth playing.
Because if a man truly didn't care, he wouldn't drown himself in liquor after a breakup. He wouldn't rush to the hospital at the news of her collapse. And he certainly wouldn't be walking out of her apartment tonight clutching the cake she had baked with her own trembling hands.
