The feeling was so intense that even he was surprised.
He thought about her while on business trips, missed her after just one day, and she came to mind even when shopping—she was nearly occupying all his emotions.
Sylvan Cheney took a deep drag from his cigarette, his eyes deep and brooding, as he rubbed his temples, slightly furrowing his brow.
This heart-gnawing sensation felt like ants crawling at his chest, exceedingly annoying.
After smoking three cigarettes, Sylvan finally stubbed out the last one, started the car, and drove his Maybach out of the parking lot.
Upstairs.
Jasmine Yale turned on the television, watching alone.
When she watched TV, she liked to hold something—sometimes a pillow, sometimes a stuffed toy—but since there wasn't any on Sylvan Cheney's bed, she had to grab onto his blanket.
His blanket carried a pleasant lavender scent, seeming to have his unique aroma.
