The number settles strangely in my chest, old enough to matter, recent enough to still bleed. I don’t know why I notice that, only that it makes the envelope feel heavier. Less like paperwork. More like something that carries a history.
I’m a heartbeat away from making a decision I can’t take back, one second from lifting the flap, from crossing yet another invisible line,
when the sound of my phone ringing slices through the quiet.
It’s coming from Khai’s bedroom.
The noise startles me, sharp and insistent, and I jerk my hand back like I’ve been burned. My pulse skids, guilt and relief tangling together as the phone continues to ring, demanding attention.
The envelope stays where it is. Unopened. Waiting.
The phone rings again.
Sharp. Insistent. Too loud in the hush of his bedroom.
I turn and run for it, bare feet skidding slightly on the polished floor as I push through the door and snatch it up just before the sound cuts off completely.
“Hello,” I answer, breathless, like I’ve been caught doing something I wasn’t meant to.
“Emmy, it’s Erin,” comes the familiar voice of the charge nurse. “I know it’s your day off, but Julie’s called in sick and I’ve exhausted all my other options. Any chance you could cover her shift in ICU today?”
Reality crashes back in, abrupt and unkind.
“Yes,” I hear myself say, even though every part of me resists it. Even though the last place I want to be right now is anywhere that isn’t here. “I can do it. Can you give me an hour?”
“Oh, thank God,” Erin exhales. “Let’s start you at nine?”
“Perfect,” I reply. “I’ll see you then.”
The call ends. Silence rushes in to fill the space it leaves behind.
I stand there for a moment, phone still clutched in my hand, the weight of what I’ve just agreed to settling heavy in my chest. Then I look around.
My clothes are gone.
The dress. The heels. Everything I wore last night has vanished like it never existed. A flicker of unease stirs as I step into the ensuite, empty. Clean. No sign of them at all.
My gaze drifts to the open doorway of his walk-in wardrobe.
I cross the room and step inside.
The lights come on automatically, revealing a space that feels more like an armoury than a closet. Suits in perfect alignment. Shoes arranged with military precision. Combat boots. Jeans. Shirts. Everything immaculate. Controlled.
So Khai.
I scan the shelves until I find what I’m looking for, something soft. Casual. A pair of dark track pants folded neatly among the rest. I tug them on quickly, the fabric unfamiliar and far too intimate all at once.
I pull my phone out again and request an Uber, fingers moving on autopilot. Then I open a message and type before I can overthink it.
Emmy:
Morning. I got called into work. I have to go.
I hesitate, thumb hovering, but don’t add anything else.
I find my handbag waiting for me on the kitchen counter, placed there deliberately, like he knew exactly how this morning would unfold. I sling it over my shoulder and take one last look around the penthouse, at the quiet, the glass, the shadows that already feel too familiar.
As I step out and the door closes behind me, one thought presses in sharp and unwelcome:
