Chapter 5 No.5

Two days later. The Met Gala.

I sat on a lumpy futon in a fourth-floor walk-up in Bushwick. The apartment belonged to Sarah's cousin, who was backpacking in Peru. It smelled of stale coffee and old books. It was perfect.

Sarah was sitting on the floor, surrounded by paperwork. "New social security number request is pending. Name change application filed. You are officially becoming a ghost."

I was nursing a bowl of lukewarm congee. My throat was still too raw for anything solid or hot, the smoke damage lingering like a phantom hand around my windpipe.

"Turn it up," I said, pointing at the small television in the corner.

The screen showed the red carpet of the Met Gala. And there he was.

Julian Vance. He looked impeccable in a Tom Ford tuxedo, though there were dark circles under his eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide. And on his arm, wearing a shimmering silver gown that looked like liquid mercury, was Serena.

Reporters thrust microphones in their faces.

"Mr. Vance! Where is Evelyn?"

Julian didn't flinch. His face was a mask of polite indifference. "Evelyn is recovering from a minor injury at home. She insisted I bring Serena as the ambassador for the Vance Foundation."

"Liar," Sarah muttered, throwing a crumpled ball of paper at the screen.

Serena smiled at the camera. It was a predatory smile. She leaned into Julian, her hand resting possessively on his chest.

"Look at her dress," I said, squinting. "That's the Fall collection from two years ago. Julian must have cut the wardrobe budget."

"Petty," Sarah grinned. "I like it."

On screen, Julian looked distracted. He kept checking his phone. He looked toward the entrance, as if expecting someone. He had been texting me for forty-eight hours. Demands. Questions. Where are you? Stop this nonsense. Come home. I hadn't replied to a single one.

At the Gala, Julian felt like he was suffocating. The flashbulbs were blinding. Serena's hand on his arm felt heavy, like a shackle.

He checked his phone again. Nothing. Evelyn hadn't texted. She hadn't called to yell at him for bringing Serena. She hadn't called to apologize for the slap.

The silence was unnerving. He had stayed at the Pierre for two days, giving her "space" to cool down-and avoiding the guilt that gnawed at him whenever he thought of her burns. But she should have cracked by now. She always cracked.

Harrison, his assistant, appeared at his elbow, looking pale.

"Sir."

"What is it? Did the stock drop?"

"No, sir. I... I stopped by the penthouse to pick up some files you requested. I found something in the foyer."

Harrison held out a small, black velvet pouch.

Julian frowned. He took it. He loosened the drawstrings and tipped the contents into his palm.

The Vance Rose. The ring he had placed on Evelyn's finger three years ago.

The noise of the gala faded into a dull roar. The champagne in his stomach turned to acid.

She took it off.

She actually took it off.

"Oh my god," Serena squealed, leaning in. "Is that Evelyn's? Did she send it to get cleaned? It looks so... heavy."

Julian's hand closed into a fist around the diamond, the edges digging into his palm. Pain. He needed the pain to ground him.

"Sir?" Harrison whispered.

"Get the car," Julian said. His voice was rough.

"But the dinner hasn't started..."

"Get the damn car!" Julian roared.

Heads turned. The paparazzi nearby swiveled their lenses toward him. Julian didn't care. He shoved the ring into his pocket and turned away from Serena.

"Julian? Where are you going?" Serena grabbed his arm.

He shook her off. "Home. I'm going home."

He strode down the red carpet, ignoring the shouts of the photographers. He needed to see her. He needed to see that she was still there, pouting in the guest room, waiting for him to grovel. She had to be there.

Because if she wasn't...

He got into the limo, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number.

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

The phone slipped from his fingers and fell onto the floor mats.