Lucky Shot

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Hardy

T he bed beside me is empty.

It’s empty when it shouldn’t be.

It’s cold, and I’m pretty sure I know why.

I rise from sheets that smell like her and walk naked through the penthouse.

While I hope she’ll be sitting at the wall of windows taking in the early morning sunrise with a cup of coffee in her hand, I know she won’t be there.

She’s not.

Her bed is empty. It’s still made from the day before. The dresser drawers are still full of all the items I bought her and that she’s been using during her stay—they’re all folded neatly and stacked nicely.

But her mobile phone and handbag are gone.

Just like she is.

Fuck.