No sign I screamed into the sofa until my throat gave out.
The housekeeper must have come.
Or Noah did.
Or—
Or Kai.
My stomach drops.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “He didn’t come back. He didn’t?—”
My own denial tastes like poison.
The corridor stretches long and quiet as I move toward the bedroom. The wooden floors gleam beneath the sunlight spilling through the skylights. Everything looks pristine. Perfect.
Too perfect.
I reach the bedroom doorway.
Stop.
Noah is sitting on the edge of the bed.
Perfect suit.
Perfect posture.
Perfect anger simmering just beneath the polished surface.
His hands are clasped together loosely between his knees, but his knuckles are white from the pressure. His jaw ticks once, twice, in that slow, deliberate way he does when he’s holding in the kind of rage he thinks makes him look weak.
He looks up.
Those blue eyes—icy, assessing, cutting—drag over me.
Over my robe.
Over my swollen, tear-burned eyes.
Over the locket on my chest.
He sees it immediately.
Immediately.
His entire body goes still.
A terrifying still—collected, composed, mechanical.
“Where were you?” he asks.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Just steady enough to make my pulse falter.
