SOPHIE
Iwoke up to sunlight and soft sheets and the kind of quiet that felt too big for the room.
For a second, my body stayed exactly where it was—heavy, warm, pleasantly sore in that slow, dreamy way that made me want to stretch and burrow and pretend the world could never reach me in here. My cheek was pressed into the pillow, my hair a mess, one leg tangled in the sheet like I’d been fighting it in my sleep.
I reached behind me without opening my eyes.
Empty.
The space beside me was cool, not just unoccupied—gone long enough to lose his heat. Not the quick “bathroom” absence. Not “grab coffee.”
My eyes snapped open.
The bed was rumpled. The room was still gorgeous—cream-and-gold, the harbor glittering beyond the curtains like something staged for a movie. Jazz had gone quiet. Candles had burned down to wax puddles on the dresser. My emerald dress was draped over a chair like evidence.
His shirt was gone. His boots were gone.
Wyatt was gone.
My chest tightened once, sharp and instinctive.
And then, almost immediately, something steadier rose up and met it.
Breathe.
I sat up slowly, letting the sheet fall to my lap, and took inventory like I was grounding myself in facts instead of spiraling into fear.
We had dinner.
We had said I love you.
He had said it back.
He had held me like he meant it.
He had promised things—maybe recklessly—but not cruelly.
He’d looked at me like he’d been starving and finally found food.
Wyatt didn’t feel like the kind of man who would vanish because he regretted me.
He felt like the kind of man who would vanish because he was terrified of wanting me this much.
That was an important difference.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, the sheet slipping away. Cool air kissed my skin. I walked barefoot across the plush carpet, passing the sitting area where two half-empty glasses still sat on the coffee table. The curtains had been left slightly open, and the morning light made everything look softer, like the room was forgiving us for what we’d done in it.
I padded into the living area and found his wallet-sized pile of things missing from the side table—keys, phone, whatever else he’d emptied out last night. The bathroom door was open. The shower was dry. No towel thrown over the rack. No toothpaste on the sink.
Okay.
I walked back into the bedroom and my eyes landed on the small velvet box on the dresser.
My breath caught as if my body had been waiting for that clue.
I crossed the room and opened it.
Empty.
