Chapter 9
Tobias
The storm rolled in without warning.
I'd been watching it build all afternoon: dark clouds massing over the valley, purple-gray and heavy with rain. The wind picked up around four, rattling the windows and making the plant on the sill shiver. By evening, the first drops hit the glass like thrown pebbles.
Vance was at the hotel. An event, he'd said. Some corporate thing that required extra security. He wouldn't be back until late.
I'd nodded and smiled and pretended the thought of being alone all evening didn't bother me.
It bothered me.
Not because I was afraid of storms. I'd never feared them. As a child, I'd loved their drama and wildness, the way the world seemed to stop and pay attention.
But the silence pressed in when Vance wasn't here. The apartment felt emptier without him. Incomplete. Like a sentence missing its final word.
I tried to read but couldn't focus. The words blurred together, replaced by the drumming of rain and the occasional crack of thunder. I tried to watch TV but couldn't concentrate; the images flickered past without registering.
At 8:47 PM, the lights went out.
The darkness was total.
I sat frozen on the couch, book still in my hands, waiting for my eyes to adjust. They didn't. There was nothing to adjust to—no streetlights visible through the rain-streaked windows, no distant glow of the city. The whole block must have lost power.
The apartment was silent except for the rain.
Slowly, carefully, I set the book aside and felt my way toward the kitchen. Vance kept a flashlight in the drawer by the sink. I'd organized that drawer a few days ago. I knew exactly where everything was.
My shin hit the coffee table before I found the kitchen. I bit back a curse, hobbling forward with my hands outstretched. The kitchen counter was cold under my palms. I felt my way along it until I found the drawer handle.
The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, unnaturally bright after the blackout. I swept it across the apartment; everything looked strange in the harsh white light. Shadowed. Unfamiliar. Like I was seeing someone else's home for the first time.
The emergency candles were where I'd put them after the dinner incident. I lit three, placed them on the coffee table, and settled onto the couch to wait.
Vance didn't come home.
An hour passed. Then two. The storm raged outside, rain sheeting down the windows and thunder rolling through the valley like artillery fire.
I checked the old flip phone Vance had given me—a prepaid burner he'd picked up so I could reach him without risking my real phone being tracked.
The battery was fine, but there was no signal.
The storm must have knocked out the cell towers.
I wasn't worried. I wasn't. The hotel was dealing with the power outage. Backup systems, probably, and guest emergencies. Vance had responsibilities.
But my mind wouldn't stop spiraling.
What if something happened?
The thought arrived uninvited, settling into my chest like ice.
What if he doesn't come back?
I knew it was irrational. I knew the storm would pass, the power would return, and Vance would walk through that door as he always did. But the darkness pressed in, the silence was too loud, and my mind kept finding things to fear.
What if he decides this is too much trouble?
That was the real fear. The one I'd been carrying since the beginning.
I was a complication. A runaway rich kid with no money, no plan, and no skills beyond folding napkins and reorganizing kitchen drawers. Vance had taken me in out of kindness, but kindness had limits. Everyone's kindness had limits.
Sitting here in the dark, in an apartment that wasn't mine, waiting for someone who might not come—I felt more alone than I had since the wedding.
The door opened at 10:36 PM.
I was curled on the couch by then, knees drawn to my chest, arms wrapped around myself. The candles were flickering low. I hadn't moved to get more. I hadn't been able to make myself move at all.
Footsteps. A flashlight beam. Then Vance's voice, sharp with concern.
"Tobias?"
I looked up.
He was silhouetted in the doorway, rain dripping from his jacket, flashlight in hand. Water pooled on the floor around his boots. His face was in shadow, but I could hear the tension in his voice.
"You okay?"
"Fine." The word came out rough, unconvincing. "Just waiting."
He closed the door behind him, shedding his wet jacket. The flashlight beam swept the room, catching the low candles, my curled position on the couch, and the book I hadn't touched in hours.
He saw too much. He always saw too much.
"You're not fine."
"I am."
He didn't argue. He crossed to the kitchen, pulled out more candles, and lit them with efficient movements. The apartment brightened. Shadows retreated. The walls stopped pressing in.
Then he came to stand in front of the couch, looking down at me with an unreadable expression.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Just..." I shook my head. "It got dark. That's all."
"Tobias."
The way he said my name. Like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I felt something give way inside me.
"I kept thinking you weren't coming back."
The words spilled out before I could stop them. Too honest. Too vulnerable. The kind of thing I'd learned never to say, because saying it gave people power.
Vance was quiet for a moment. Then he sat beside me on the couch, not touching but close enough that I could feel his warmth. His knee was inches from mine. The space between us felt charged.
"I'll always come back," he said. "You know that."
I nodded, even though I didn't know that. I couldn't know that. People made promises they couldn't keep. People left, and they didn't always mean to, and it didn't matter because they were still gone.
"Hey." His voice was softer now. Closer. "Look at me."
I did.
His gray eyes were steady in the candlelight. Serious. Intent.
"I'll always come back," he said again. "As long as you want me to."
Something shifted in my chest. The ice cracked. The fear loosened its grip, just a little.
"Okay," I whispered.
We sat like that for a while. Not touching, but close. The storm raged outside, but it felt distant now. Less threatening.
"You need a drink," Vance said finally. He stood, crossed to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. Cheap stuff, the kind you buy in bulk and don't think about.
He poured a generous three fingers into each glass and handed me one.
We ended up on the floor, backs against the couch, shoulders almost touching. The candles flickered on the coffee table, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"Hotel was chaos," Vance said, breaking the silence. "Backup generators kicked in, but the main system took two hours to reset. Guests panicked. Staff ran around in the dark."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It's the job." He took a long sip. "I wanted to leave earlier. Couldn't."
Warmth spread through me at the admission. He'd wanted to come back. He'd been thinking about it.
"Were there injuries?"
"Nothing serious. One twisted ankle. A lot of complaining."
I took a sip of bourbon. It burned going down, warm and sharp, settling in my stomach like a small fire.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he said after a while.
"You were working."
"Still. I should have checked in."
"The phones were out."
"I should have found a way."
I turned to look at him. His profile was sharp in the candlelight, jaw set, eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
"You came back," I said. "That's what matters."
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough.
"This reminds me of that night. On the terrace."
My heart stuttered. "What night?"
"The site visit. Second night." He turned to meet my eyes. "You couldn't sleep, so you went out to the terrace. I found you there."
The memory crashed over me like a wave.
The terrace had been cold. Late September, past midnight, the kind of chill that settled into your bones if you stood still long enough. I'd been at the railing, looking out at the darkness, trying to breathe.
The venue walkthrough had been endless. Elizabeth's mother fussing over flower arrangements, debating between ivory and cream as if the fate of the world depended on it.
My father discussing logistics with the hotel manager, all business, all strategy.
Elizabeth herself radiant and excited, talking about table settings and first dances while I nodded along like a puppet whose strings had gone slack.
I'd excused myself after dinner. Claimed a headache. Retreated to my room and stared at the ceiling for hours, unable to sleep.
At 2 AM, I'd given up and slipped out to the terrace.
The view was beautiful. Rolling hills beneath a canopy of stars, the distant gleam of the Hudson in the moonlight. The air smelled like autumn, change, and endings.
I stood at the railing, trying to imagine returning here in a month. Standing at an altar. Saying vows I didn't mean. Kissing a woman I didn't want.
Living a lie for the rest of my life.
Footsteps behind me.
"Can't sleep?"
I turned. There he was.
The man from the fountain. Security, judging by his uniform. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face a study of hard angles in the dim light. His eyes were gray. I remembered that specifically—gray like storm clouds, like the sky before rain.
The same gray eyes that had haunted my dreams since the fountain.
"I didn't think anyone would be here," I said.
"I'm always here. Night shift." He moved to stand beside me at the railing, leaving a respectful distance between us. Not too close, but close enough. "Checking the perimeter."
"Is the perimeter secure?"
"For now."
We stood in silence for a while. Two men looking at the same view, sharing the same darkness. It should have felt awkward. A stranger in the night. But something about his presence was steadying. Solid. Like a wall you could lean against.
"Do you ever feel like you're living someone else's life?"