Dragging myself up takes everything I have. My legs feel rubbery, uncooperative. My head swims as I stand, gripping the bedpost until the wave passes.
My robe hangs on the door.
I pull it on with hands that won’t stop shaking.
Walking feels like learning how to move again—slow, unsteady steps across polished wooden floors that glint as sunlight spills through the hallway skylight.
The house feels wrong.
Not unsafe.
Not disturbed.
Just… wrong.
Like someone had breathed inside these walls who shouldn’t have.
Like the air hasn’t settled yet.
“Noah?” I try again, louder this time.
Nothing.
His shoes are gone from beside the door.
His jacket too.
Ice prickles down my spine.
Maybe he went to work.
Maybe he went to the gym.
Maybe he’s angry.
Maybe…
Maybe he left.
The idea hits harder than it should.
I walk into the kitchen.
Stop dead.
On the marble island sits a box.
Small.
Black.
Wrapped with a thin crimson ribbon tied perfectly once—no loops, no frills, no softness.
Just tension.
My stomach drops.
My pulse spikes.
