No.This is between us.
I won’t pull anyone else into this. Not yet.
I force myself to breathe.Think, Nathaniel.
She didn’t take much with her, so she couldn’t have gone far. She doesn’t intend to vanish. She’s probably somewhere close by. Maybe she’s reading at a cafe nearby, in search of somewhere quiet as she waits for the noise inside her to settle.
I can find her.
She’ll forgive me once she sees that I’m just worried. That I’m trying, and I’d do anything she asks of me.
This is not the end. It cannot be.
I tuck the necklace into my pocket and grab my keys.
I’ll just check. If she’s not ready to see me, I won’t approach.
It’s a lie, and I know it. But telling myself this grants me permission. It buys me time. If I don’t call it abandonment, maybe it won’t become that.
I step into the elevator, press the button for the garage, and let the doors close behind me.
I spendthe afternoon circling the city like a man possessed.
Cafés. Bookstores. The parks she likes to walk through. Every corner of Halford’s campus. I scan faces through windows, pace sidewalks until dusk begins to bleed into the horizon. With each hour, my reasoning frays further.
She’ll have to come back eventually, I tell myself. She wouldn’t spend the night away. Not without telling me.
Not withoutmeaningto.
But the sun dips, and the light dies, and she doesn’t come home.
By the time I drag myself back to the penthouse, I’m hollow with hope. Somewhere inside me, a sick, fragile part still clings to the fantasy of unlocking the door and seeing her curled up on the couch—worn out, maybe, but home. Maybe she’ll look up at me, tired but soft, and let me hold her like nothing has fractured between us.
Instead, I am greeted by the same darkness I left behind.
I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t move for a while. I just stand there, letting the disappointment crash over me like a silent tide. Cold. Immovable. All the worse because I saw it coming.
I punish myself with a brutal workout—deadlifts until my hands shake, sprints until I see stars—but the ache in my chest outlasts the pain in my limbs. I can’t sleep. Can’t quiet the questions. Can’t stop seeing her face when each time she told me she needed space.
By the time dawn begins to edge into the sky, I’ve given up trying to sleep.
I sit in the study, hunched over a cup of black coffee that’s long gone cold. My eyes sting. I haven’t blinked in too long. Myfingers, however, are very much awake—curled tight around a velvet ring box that’s been taunting me since before the sun set.
I pop it open with my thumb.
The ruby catches the pale light from the desk lamp—dark red, bold, unapologetically rich. An emerald cut, flanked by marquise diamonds on either side like twin wings. The stones were steeped in legacy—the ruby from the Caldwell family jewels and the diamonds from my mother’s personal collection.
The ring wasn’t chosen for tradition or subtlety. It was chosen forher, and I wanted it to mean everything.
When I first opened this box and saw how perfect it was, I couldn’t breathe. I’d already rehearsed the moment a dozen times—her surprised laughter, her fingers trembling as I slid the ring onto her hand, her mouth formingyesbefore I even asked the question.
Now, all I can think is:What if I never get the chance?
I shut the lid with a snap and slide the box into the drawer with enough force to feel the desk shift under my palms.
When I turn back to the monitors, it’s not because I expect anything new. The cloned phone remains offline. The necklace doesn’t ping on any of the trackers. And for the past twelve hours, the apartment’s been still.
But then I catch movement.
