Chapter 36
Harry
I’m three hours and forty minutes deep into a drive that should’ve been four and a half, and I don’t remember half the road.
The highway blurred out after Jersey. I’ve been white-knuckling the wheel in silence ever since, no music, no podcasts, no phone calls. Just the low whine of the engine and the sound of my own thoughts spiraling again and again down the same drain. She left me to see him.
I’d told myself I’d give her space. Three days.
Just three. But when she finally texted this morning — the barest breadcrumb of an apology, no real explanation — something snapped.
I couldn’t wait any longer. Not knowing.
Not wondering. Not sitting there like a fucking idiot in a too-big house, scrolling back through messages and imagining how many nights she’s spent curled up on another man’s bed.
So I got in the car the moment I finished working at three in the afternoon.
I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t tell Grace.
Matthew picks up on the second ring. “Let me guess,” he says, his voice coming through the speakers in my Bentley. “You need Ross’s address?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
I can hear the exhaustion in his sigh. “That’s private information, Harry.”
“But you have it.”
His silence is an answer on its own.
“Matthew,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Fine,” he answers. My phone dings a moment later. “Just don’t beat him up.”
“I’m not going to beat him up,” I mutter, tapping once to set the satnav to his address. “I’m going to speak to my wife.”
“I still don’t feel right about it.”
“What else is having this much money good for if not paying you to feel fine about it?”
“It’s not about the money,” Matthew retorts.
“Make it about the money. I’ll give you a bonus.”
I hang up before he can make me doubt myself.
By the time I pull up in front of the building, the sun is setting behind the Philadelphia towers in the distance, painting the sky in blues and pinks that feel too soft for what I need to handle.
The building itself is a clean, brick square with a security door and a callbox out front.
I nearly slam my fist into the brick beside it before catching myself and hitting the buzzer next to Emery, R.
A beat passes, then the intercom clicks.
“Hello?” The voice is tinny, grainy, and unmistakably male.
“Harald Highcourt,” I say. “I’m here to see my wife.”
The door buzzes and clicks open.
I move past the mail room and up the narrow stairs, double-checking the apartment number on my phone. By the time I get to the top floor, the door to his apartment is already open, a man standing in the doorway.
Tall. Athletic. Tanned. Blue eyes and wavy, overgrown brown hair. He’s wearing a State University of New York hoodie, a pair of joggers, and slippers. Comfortable. Settled. Fucking hell. He’s significantly younger than me, and I hate it.
“Mr. Highcourt,” he says. His voice is low, but it’s measured and calm. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t either,” I say tightly.
He holds out a hand. I shake it only because I don’t want to look like the one who’s losing control, even though I feel like I’m ten seconds from doing exactly that. His grip is firm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes when they meet mine.
Does he think I’m the threat?
“Let me get Elena,” he says carefully. “She doesn’t, uh, know you’re here, I’m assuming.”
“I didn’t tell her, no.”
He nods slowly, taking a step back. “She’s just in the guest room. Give me a sec.”
The apartment is clean from what I can see as he rounds the corner.
It’s open plan, minimalist. I scan the space for signs of her — her sweater over the back of a chair, a pair of flats by the door, a book with one of her bookmarks hanging out on the entryway table. She’s here. She’s been here. Living.
I hear her before I see her.
“Why is the door open?” she asks, her voice rounding the corner. But then Ross enters my line of sight again, followed by her behind him, and she stops dead in her tracks. “Harry?”
She’s barefoot in leggings and one of my shirts, her hair tied up in a frizzy, unkempt knot like she doesn’t care about showing this relaxed version of herself to him. Her eyes widen, her mouth parting like she’s not sure whether to be surprised, angry, or relieved.
I force the words out of my mouth.
“Hi, darling.”
She blinks rapidly. “What are you—”
“I had to see for myself,” I say.
The silence rings too loudly in my ears.
“I’ll, uh, give you guys a minute,” Ross says. He steps back behind her, squeezing her shoulder once, and I have to physically stop myself from lunging. But he’s gone before I can do anything.
She doesn’t thank him. She doesn’t even look at him. Her eyes stay on me, like if she looks away, I might vanish.
Hesitantly, she reaches out for her sweater on the back of the chair and pulls it over her head, then slips her bare feet into a pair of slides by the door that are far too large for her and definitely his. “Let’s… uh, privacy.”
She moves past me, leading me to the end of the hallway. There’s a narrow set of stairs that leads to an emergency exit, but when she pushes the bar across it, no alarm goes off. I follow out past her as she holds for me before she kicks a brick into place to hold the door open.
“It locks if you don’t,” she offers by way of explanation.
The rooftop is barely a patio. It’s modest, with string lights hanging and a small bistro table, a grill in the corner. The city skyline rises beneath the sunset in the distance behind her, and the wind whips, cold and biting, but I don’t fully feel it.
She takes her hair down and smooths it out around her neck. I almost ask if she’s cold. But I don’t. Instead, we’re both quiet, neither of us saying a damn thing.
Until she breaks it.
“I didn’t think you’d come here.”
“Clearly,” I snap.
She winces. “Harry—”
“What the fuck is going on?” My voice cuts through the air sharper than I mean to. “You disappear for three days, ignore every call, every message. Then I found out you’re not just visiting Philadelphia for fun, you’re here to see him. You were married to him.”
She pales instantly.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” I ask, stepping forward. “Or was I just supposed to find out pieces of your life like I’m doing a scavenger hunt?”
Her lower lip wobbles. “I was going to—”
“When?” I bark, a bitter laugh crawling up my chest. “After she’s born? When I asked the right questions? Jesus, Elena, come on.”
“I wanted to tell you sooner,” she says, her voice breaking. “And then I panicked. And I was going to when I got home. I just didn’t want to do it over text — you deserve better than that.”
My breath catches in my throat. “I deserve better than that?” I rasp. “I deserve better than all of this.”
She flinches. “I know.”
I don’t hesitate. I need to know. “Did you leave him because of the contract?”
She goes still, stone still, her eyes searching mine like she’s either mortified or wildly confused. “What?”