“And you married Holden Montero?”
You almost smiled.
“I was in love, not brain-dead.”
“Love and brain death are often confused in Manhattan.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
It startled you.
It startled him too, though he hid it quickly.
Then he said, “Reporter rules. What would you do if this were not your life?”
The question sank deep.
You looked down at the whiskey.
If this were not your life, you would follow the money.
You would ask why Holden needed the gala.
You would ask why Celeste was not just hidden, but displayed.
You would ask why his mother was preparing to call you unstable.
You would ask what story he needed written before the truth could arrive.
You looked up.
“I’d start with the Plaza Gala donor list.”
Matteo nodded once.
“There she is.”
The words were quiet.
But they struck harder than praise.
There she is.
Not Mrs. Montero.
Not ruined wife.
Not humiliated woman locked in a closet.
Chloe Castell.
The woman Holden had buried without realizing she still knew how to dig herself out.
Matteo stood.
“Silian will take you home.”
“I can take a cab.”
“You can.”
He looked toward the door.
“But tonight, you won’t.”
The Irishman from the elevator appeared as if summoned from the wall itself.
You stared at Matteo.
“I said I needed you for the gala. Not a handler.”
“And I said I would decide later what I wanted.”
Your spine stiffened.
“Be careful.”
His eyes moved over your face.
Not offended.
Interested.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Never accept protection that begins to feel like ownership.”
The sentence should not have reassured you.
It did anyway.
When you returned to the penthouse, Holden was alone.
Celeste was gone.
The emerald earrings were gone too.
He sat in the living room with his laptop open and a drink in his hand, wearing a navy sweater you used to love because it made him look softer than he was.
He did not look up immediately.
“You were gone a while.”
You hung your coat slowly.
“I walked.”
“At night?”
“I’m unstable, remember?”
His fingers paused over the keyboard.
Then he looked up.
