Chapter 3 3

Fletcher walked into the pool of light cast by the streetlamps outside. He looked wrecked. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck like a noose. He pulled it off in one fluid motion and tossed it onto the Persian rug without looking where it landed.

As he moved closer, the smell hit her. It was stronger now than it had been on the luggage. Aged whiskey, stale cigar smoke, and that floral scent-Chanel No. 5. It wasn't her perfume. She wore Jo Malone, something light and unobtrusive. This was heavy, musky, a scent that clung to skin.

Alexa stood her ground, her fingernails digging into her palms. "You're back."

Fletcher didn't look at her. He walked past her to the wet bar, pouring himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. He downed it in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Only then did he turn. He leaned back against the bar, crossing his ankles. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, but his gaze was as sharp as a scalpel.

"Still up?" His voice was gravelly, rough from disuse or too much talking. "Waiting for an allowance check?"

The insult landed with precision. Alexa flinched. "I didn't know when you were coming back. You didn't call."

Fletcher let out a short, humorless laugh. It was a sound devoid of joy. "I come back to my own property, Alexa. Do I need to file an itinerary with the tenant?"

"I am your wife," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Not a tenant."

Fletcher pushed off the bar. He moved toward her, his strides long and predatory. The air around him felt charged, dangerous. He stopped just inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

He reached out. For a split second, Alexa thought he might touch her cheek. Instead, his fingers clamped around her chin. His skin was ice cold. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look into his eyes. They were dark, swirling with an emotion she couldn't place-anger? Exhaustion? Disgust?

"Wife," he repeated, testing the word like it was poison. "The devoted wife who tracks my location through gossip columns?"

Alexa's breath hitched. "I saw the news alert. And then Judy sent me..."

"Judy," he spat the name out. He dropped his hand from her face as if touching her burned him. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers. "You and your little network of spies. Did you enjoy the show? Did it give you something to talk about with your nursing friends?"

"I'm a surgeon," she corrected automatically.

"Right. The surgeon." He looked around the room, his eyes scanning the space with manic intensity. His gaze landed on the sofa where she had been sitting. A throw pillow was dented.

His eyes narrowed. "Were you entertaining? Is that why you're still awake at midnight?"

"What?" Alexa blinked, confused. "No. I was alone."

"It smells like... animal," he said, wrinkling his nose. He took a step toward the sofa. "And cheap food."

"I made dinner," she said quietly. "Steak. Your favorite."

"I ate at The Pierre," he said, turning his back on her. "Real food."

He walked toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Alexa felt a surge of desperation. This couldn't be it. Three months apart and this was the conversation?

"Fletcher," she called out.

He stopped at the door to the master suite. He didn't turn around. His shoulders were tense, the muscles visible through his white dress shirt.

"Don't come in here tonight," he said. His voice was low, final. "Sleep in the guest room. Or the maid's quarters. I don't care."

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because," he said, opening the door and stepping into the darkness of the bedroom, "I'm tired of looking at mistakes."

The door slammed shut. The sound echoed through the penthouse, vibrating in the floorboards under Alexa's feet.

She stood there for a long time. The silence returned, heavier than before. She looked down at her hands. They were trembling.

Slowly, she turned and walked toward the guest wing. It was sterile, unused, the bed sheets stiff and cold. She lay down on top of the duvet, still wearing her clothes.

Through the wall, she could hear the shower running in the master bathroom. He was scrubbing himself clean. Scrubbing off the travel, the whiskey, the other woman's perfume.

Or maybe, she thought as a single tear leaked out of her eye and tracked into her ear, he was trying to scrub off the feeling of being home.