Four texts. Five voice-mails. All unanswered.
He crossed the floor and picked the ring up.
The stones caught the morning light, throwing fractured rainbows across the surface of her desk. For a second, he stood there, staring at it, unable to move. She’d left it behind on purpose. A full stop at the end of whatever they were.
His fingers closed around it, and he slipped it into his pocket and turned toward the elevator.
He needed to talk to someone who understood people—not numbers. Someone who understood connection. He needed to talk to Eleanor Beauchamp.
He pulled out his phone as the elevator doors slid shut. “I need a charter,” he said when the operator picked up.
“Yes, Mr. Wilder. Your flight to Martha’s Vineyard is scheduled?—”
“I’m moving it up.”
“To when?” the operator asked.
“Now.”
A pause.
“Now, sir?” the operator asked.
“I’ll pay anything. I want wheels up in forty minutes.” He ended the call.
Thirty minutes later the helicopter cut through the morning air, skimming over the Atlantic. Inside the cabin, he watched the coastline recede, Manhattan’s skyline shrinking until it was a jagged line on the horizon—the distance that now stretched between his old life and whatever came next.
When the island eventually appeared in the distance—a crescent of green rising from the sea—he tried to order his thoughts. What could Eleanor possibly tell him that would salvage this situation? He didn’t know. A rare thing, he was acting on impulse rather than calculation. The realization should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like relief.
The helicopter descended toward the clearing, the helipad tucked between wind-stirred trees and a narrow path that disappeared into the greenery. He didn’t register much beyond that—only the hush of the blades slowing, the looming presence beyond the trees, and the certainty that there was no turning back.
A figure emerged onto the wide veranda, shielding their eyes against the morning glare. Eleanor Beauchamp, elegant in white linen pants and a pale blue blouse.
She waited as he crossed the lawn. “Ronan,” she said as he reached the porch. “You’re quite early.”
“Mrs. Beauchamp.” He hesitated at the bottom stair. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Eleanor, please.” She gestured to the chair beside her. “And it’s not an intrusion. Though I’m curious what brings you here at this hour. Andrew isn’t expected back until before your scheduled meeting.”
He took the offered seat, the wicker creaking beneath him. “That’s fortunate. I was hoping to speak with you.”
Her expression changed, subtle but assessing. “You don’t look like you’ve slept at all.”
“I haven’t.”
“How about some coffee?” she asked. “And perhaps some breakfast?”
“Coffee, yes. Breakfast might be ambitious.”
She signaled to someone inside the house. Moments later, a staff member appeared, carrying a silver tray with coffee and pastries.
“Now,” Eleanor said once they were alone again, passing him a steaming cup, “why are you here?”
He stared into the dark liquid, searching for the right words. How to explain what he barely understood himself.
“I’ve lost her,” he said, the words emerging with unexpected honesty.
Eleanor didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Devney.”
