The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 542

The sky darkened as the day wore on, but the storm showed no sign of letting up.

The snow shifted from gentle flurries to massive, blinding sheets, burying the city in a relentless deluge.

Sloane stood by the window, wiping away a patch of condensation on the glass to peer outside.

Garrison was no longer sitting in her stairwell. At some point, he had gone downstairs and relocated to the dilapidated gazebo in the small courtyard garden. It offered a roof to shield him from the direct snowfall, but not much else. The freezing wind whipped through the open structure from every angle, sending miniature snowdrifts swirling wildly across the stone benches.

Garrison leaned heavily against one of the gazebo's pillars. The collar of his coat was turned up, his shoulders tightly hunched. He cradled his left arm against his chest while his right hand remained completely clamped over his stomach.

Under the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp, his face was a ghastly, translucent blue, his lips virtually matching the pale sheen of the snow around him.

Sloane yanked the curtains shut in sheer agitation.

He had always loved using these manipulative tactics to corner people!

If he wanted to wait, let him wait! She had made up her mind; she absolutely refused to be emotionally blackmailed by his antics anymore.

She wanted to see exactly how long he could last.

Sloane marched into the kitchen, leisurely pulled a packet of hot cocoa from the cabinet, and dumped it into a mug. She added hot water, stirring it mechanically. The sweet, rich scent of chocolate quickly filled the small room. Cradling the warm cup, she nested back into the couch, forcing her eyes onto the remaining pages of her book.

Tick-tock, tick-tock—

The clock struck 6:00 PM. Sloane's stomach let out a low rumble.

She closed the book and headed back to the kitchen. Her groceries were running low, so she quickly whipped up a warm bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

Sitting at the small dining table, she picked up her spoon, let it drop, and picked it up again. After two bites, her appetite completely vanished.

After washing the dishes, she dried her hands. Hesitating for a moment, she walked back to the living room and cracked the curtains open.

Garrison was still there.

His hair was a messy, windblown disaster, coated in a thick layer of snow that had melted and refrozen into tiny, jagged icicles at the ends. He was entirely curled in on himself on the stone bench, both arms now wrapped tightly around his stomach as his shoulders violently trembled.

Sloane bit her lip hard and violently whipped the curtains shut.