Chapter 5
Chris
I loosen the knot of my silk tie, letting the tension drop from my neck as I step through the threshold of the master suite.
My calves and thighs ache from the relentless walking required just to reach my car in the terminal lot this evening.
Home sweet home, I think, a low breath slipping past my teeth.
There is no sanctuary like this one. Just the anticipation of returning to the sweetness of my wife’s scent and the welcoming softness of her body acts as a balm, lulling my mind toward sleep before I even reach the mattress.
I approach the edge of the bed, raising my hand to toss my leather briefcase onto the covers.
I freeze mid-motion, remembering Zoe’s strict rule against cluttering the sheets.
Yawning into my palm, I pivot and carry it into the walk-in closet, sliding it into its designated slot alongside the others.
I look toward the corner by the closet door, noticing my valet has already dropped my luggage from the trip in its proper place.
My mind suddenly drifts back to the morning I left for Washington with Sarai.
I recall the moment I stood before the built-in watch display, setting my wrist timepiece down.
Something was missing. I mutter the phrase under my breath, physically repeating the reverse of the action in slow motion, trying to trigger the memory.
I squint, staring hard at the marble surface, willing the missing image to materialize in the empty space.
Nothing comes. A dry chuckle escapes me at the sheer absurdity of the picture I must present—standing entirely still before rows of luxury watches, squinting like a madman into a blank corner for minutes on end.
I let out a sharp exhalation, blowing air past my lips to clear the fog.
"Honey," I call out, my voice echoing slightly against the high ceilings of the house. "Honey?"
I glance back into the bedroom. The space is dark, the sheets undisturbed. I sigh, unbuttoning my dress shirt and tossing it toward the laundry hamper. As the fabric falls into the woven basket, my gaze drifts to the floor beside it.
Hmm. There is supposed to be a cluster of riding footwear my wife always keeps neatly lined against the molding.
I shake my head, assuming she finally moved them to storage.
I go completely still, my hands pausing on my belt buckle.
No. She never moves those. Those particular pairs are stationary fixtures, items she considers too precious to hide away.
I speak the thought aloud to the empty closet, then shake off the fleeting unease, stripping down and strolling into the master bathroom.
There is a vast difference between home water and hotel water, I mutter, letting the hot stream rinse away the residue of travel.
After a long, steaming shower, I step out and face the vanity mirror.
I tilt my head to the side, a strange sensation of vacancy prickling at my neck.
I squint again, repeating the same hyper-focused stare I used in the closet, demanding my brain catalog the discrepancies.
My mind insists these missing details are vital.
Her hairbrush is missing from the vanity tray.
I nod, mentally ticking the first item off a sudden, invisible list. Her cosmetics are gone from the glass shelves.
I turn toward the opposite counter. None of her everyday essentials occupy the space.
Only a single plush bath towel, featuring her name customized in elegant embroidery across the hem, remains on the brass ring.
What if she left?
The intrusive thought flashes through my consciousness. I instantly shake my head, discarding the notion. It is impossible. It simply cannot be. The urge to sprint through the corridors and search the estate hits me, but I check my stride. Or I could just call her.
After patting my skin dry with the customized towel, I return to the closet and pull on my pajamas.
I pick up my phone and dial her number. The line doesn't even ring; it drops instantly.
I try a second time, but the result remains identical.
Sinking onto the edge of the mattress, I close my eyes and try to force my mind into sleep.
But rest remains elusive. Sleep never stays for long when I am denied the simple anchor of holding her deep into the night. It is the very reason I avoid extended travel; the reason I can never settle into a deep sleep anywhere else in the world.
I bolt awake hours later, my eyelids weighted down by the pressure of unfinished rest. Starting the cycle over is impossible now. I yawn into the shadows of the room, extending an arm to pat her side of the bed. My palm hits cold, flat linen.
"Zoe?" I call out.
The quiet room offers no response. I sit straight up, running a rough hand over my face. "Where could she be?" I ask the dark, the question hanging uselessly in the air.
And I hope you understand too when I leave.
Her parting words from the night before echo through my head with the force of a physical blow. I fling the duvet off my legs, lunging out of bed so quickly my ankle catches on the frame, causing me to stumble forward. I steady myself and rush into the bathroom, flicking on the overhead lights.
"There's nothing here," I mutter, my voice sounding thin.
I race back into the walk-in closet, targeting the entire opposite side where her wardrobe belongs. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs, suffocating and fast.
"There's nothing here," I say aloud, my fingers gripping the empty clothing rods. "There's nothing here."
My hand flies to my mouth, my thumb pressing hard against my lips as I try to calculate a logical destination.
I burst out of the suite, sprinting down the corridor to the children's wing.
Empty. I proceed to march through the remaining thirteen extra rooms upstairs, throwing open each door with a desperate, mounting expectation.
Every single handle yields nothing but immaculate, vacant guest quarters.
My breath comes in short, ragged gasps now, my lungs burning from the frantic exercise of running around the top floor.
A sensation like a brutal gut punch hits my stomach, forcing me to lean against a doorframe for support.
"Did she leave per chance?" My voice comes out shaky, vibrating with a panic I can no longer suppress. "Because no. I can't breathe without her."
I retrace my steps to the master suite, racing straight to the intercom panel mounted in the closet wall.
I press the buzzer repeatedly, sending a loud, continuous ring down to the staff quarters.
Stepping out onto the plush carpet, my bare feet tap a restless pattern against the wool fibers.
I find myself chewing on the edge of my thumbnail—a nervous habit Zoe would have slapped my hand for within a second if she were standing here.
"Oh God." I run both hands through my hair, gripping the strands tight as my mind races down a hundred terrifying avenues.
She hasn't left. Oh God, no, she hasn't left.
She can't have left. I rub my knuckles hard against my eyes, looking back at her side of the mattress as if the physical friction could make her form materialize on the sheets. The linen stays smooth.
A soft, hesitant knock sounds at the bedroom door.
"Come in," I bark.
The heavy door swings inward, and the head of our household staff, Hosanna, steps into the light.
She is a full-figured woman in her late fifties, but tonight her eyes look heavy, the lids swollen and ringed with red.
I try to gather my straying thoughts, forcing a composure I don't possess.
For the first time in my life, I experience a visceral dread regarding a servant's answer.
The only other time my pulse ever behaved like this was the afternoon I prepared to propose to Zoe.
"Hosanna," I say, my voice cracking slightly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Uh... peradventure, can you confirm if my wife mentioned she was stepping out for a few days?"
Hosanna avoids my direct gaze, her chin dropping slightly. "Uh... your wife... she left with, I think, almost all her things, sir."
I swallow a large, suffocating gulp of air, the dryness in my throat making the action painful. A sudden warmth pricks my eyelids, threatening to blur my vision.
"What?... Uh, I mean, did she perhaps say when she was coming back? You know..." I cut myself off as the words get choked up in my windpipe.
"I think she left, sir," she repeats softly.
"Huh?" The sound escapes my lips entirely airy, devoid of substance, the vocal cords failing to catch. I blink rapidly, watching the steady perimeter of my room feel as though it is tilting on its axis, the entire world crumbling before my eyes. "She left, you say?"
"Yes," Hosanna confirms, her voice thick with sympathy.
"You may go."
She offers a low bow and quietly retreats, clicking the door shut behind her.
"She left."
I snatch my phone from the nightstand, my thumb trembling as I pull up her contact details.
I dial the number. It doesn't even complete a full ring cycle before dropping straight to voicemail.
I disconnect and try again. The automated operator greets me instantly.
I try a third time, then attempt to send a short text via iMessage.
The text bubble remains a stagnant shade of green, missing the customary delivery confirmation beneath the border.
I shut my eyes tight, a cold dread wearing a heavy cloak over my entire person.
Just great. She blocked me.