It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 06.
Six
Ranj 】
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[ Ranj • grief/sorrow ]
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THE ZACHARY HAWTHORNE that is currently in detective Adam Stone’s line of sight is alarmingly different from the man anyone is accustom to seeing in the papers or on the web.
Gone is the unshakeable confidence, that effortless royal-like poise, and the magnetic pull he normally has wrapped around him from head to toe.
In place of all that, is a man who it took only a few minutes to break apart.
In front of Adam Stone, sits the shell of the man Zachary Hawthorne used to be. There’s a drop to his shoulders that looks like the whole world came crashing on top of him, and a look in his bloodshot eyes that suggests he’s suffocating underneath the weight of that broken world.
Adam shifts his eyes towards Sebastian Hawthorne, whose gaze has never left his son’s profile. The man’s hand remains on the back of Zachary’s neck, his mouth set into a thin line. Adam didn’t know that the father and son have a close relationship—the media never really captures that aspect of the Hawthorne family. It’s always so easy to accept that all high-profile, well-connected families don’t have an equally strong and consistent core.
Witnessing this is a nice, welcome change for Adam, who has seen how ugly things can get between loved ones when there’s fame and power to their names.
“Where was she found?” Zachary Hawthorne’s hoarse, shattered voice eventually fills the silence of that hotel room. Adam sees a fresh wave of water fill the man’s eyes but no further tears spill.
“In Springfield,” Adam replies, careful to keep his voice low and his tone soft. This is always the hardest part of the job—having to inform a family of the death of a loved one. Especially when it’s something so horrific and unexpected like homicide.
Zachary’s head lifts up from its lowered position, and his eyes meet Adam’s. “Springfield?” he repeats, confusion flitting across his face, blending into the agony and heartbreak in his eyes before dissipating. “I don’t understand—” He sits a little straighter on the edge of the bed, but even that movement looks lifeless and completely devoid of energy. “Lia—” he sucks in a harsh breath, and his face crumples into a pained expression, like the mere feel of his wife’s name on his tongue takes every ounce of life in him.
