Chapter 3 No.3

The valet at Le Bernadin barely had time to react as the pink Lamborghini pulled up to the curb with sharp efficiency.

Kaycee threw the door open and tossed the keys at the stunned young man. "Keep it running."

She didn't wait for a ticket. She pushed through the revolving doors, ignoring the indignant looks from the hostess stand. Her black dress swished around her ankles as she marched into the dining room.

It was quiet, the air filled with the murmur of polite conversation and the clinking of silverware.

She scanned the room. Table 12. Hunter's usual table. It was in the corner, secluded, private.

It was empty.

Kaycee felt her stomach drop. She rushed over to the Maitre D', a tall man with a stiff upper lip named Jean-Pierre.

"Mr. Gallagher," she demanded, her breath coming in short bursts. "Where is he?"

Jean-Pierre looked down his nose at her, though his expression faltered slightly when he recognized her. "Miss Serrano. Mr. Gallagher left approximately five minutes ago."

"Left?" Kaycee gripped the edge of the podium. "But the reservation was for seven."

"Mr. Gallagher arrived at six-thirty," Jean-Pierre said coolly. "He waited for thirty minutes. When he received... a message... he paid the bill and departed."

A message.

Corrine.

Kaycee closed her eyes, cursing silently. Corrine must have texted him from a burner phone, or maybe even spoofed Kaycee's number, telling him she wasn't coming.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"I do not pry into the affairs of our guests, Miss Serrano."

Kaycee spun around, her mind racing. Think. Where would he go?

In her past life, Corrine had told her later that night, laughing over margaritas, that Hunter had gone to The Obsidian Club to drown his sorrows. Kaycee had believed her.

But wait.

She replayed the memory. Corrine had said, "I saw his car heading downtown towards the club."

But later, months later, Hunter had mentioned in passing-during one of the few times they spoke civilly-that he hated The Obsidian Club. He called it a "pretentious meat market."

He wouldn't go there when he was hurt. He would go to ground. He would go to the one place where no one could bother him.

The Fortress. His private villa in the hills of Cold Spring.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out.

Corrine: "Where are you?? The shots are getting warm!"

Kaycee stared at the screen. She typed back quickly.

Kaycee: "Change of plans. Not feeling well. Going home to sleep."

She turned to leave and nearly collided with a woman entering the restaurant.

"Kaycee!"

Kaycee froze. It was Corrine.

She was wearing a silver sequined dress that barely covered her thighs, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. She looked like a million dollars, and every cent was paid for by the betrayal of her best friend.

"I thought you were sick?" Corrine asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked Kaycee up and down. "And why are you dressed like you're going to a funeral? So morbid."

Kaycee forced the muscles in her face to relax. Before she stepped out of the car, she had taken a moment, practicing the vapid, pouty expression she used to wear. It was a mask, and she needed to put it on perfectly. She forced that pout onto her lips now.

"I am sick," Kaycee lied smoothly. "I came to tell Hunter off in person, but he was already gone. Can you believe the nerve?"

Corrine's face relaxed into a smirk. "He left? Good. He probably realized he's out of his league. Come on, let's go to the club. Aldo is meeting us there."

She reached out to link her arm with Kaycee's.

Kaycee felt a wave of revulsion so strong it nearly made her shudder. She pulled her arm back, pretending to adjust her clutch.

"I can't, Corrine. My head is splitting. I'm just going to go home and crash."

Corrine studied her for a moment, looking for cracks in the facade. "You're acting weird. Did something happen?"

"Just a headache," Kaycee said, stepping around her. "Have a drink for me."

"Wait," Corrine called out. "Did you see which way Hunter went? I wanted to... you know, make sure he didn't do anything stupid."

Kaycee turned back. "The Maitre D' said he headed west."

West. Towards the highway. Towards Cold Spring.

Corrine's eyes flickered. "West? Weird. I could have sworn I saw his driver heading downtown."

There it was. The lie. Corrine knew exactly where he wasn't going.

"Maybe I heard wrong," Kaycee shrugged. "Anyway, bye."

She hurried out to the valet, her heart pounding. She had to get to the villa.

She jumped back into the Lamborghini.

"Cold Spring," she muttered to herself. "Don't fail me now."

She drove decisively, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon. As she left the city limits and hit the winding roads leading up into the hills, the air grew darker, heavier.

She had never been to The Fortress. Hunter had invited her once, shortly after their engagement was announced. She had laughed in his face and told him she didn't do "rustic."

She remembered the hurt in his eyes. It was a subtle thing, a tightening of the corners of his mouth. She hadn't cared then.

Now, the memory cut her like a knife.

She reached the heavy iron gates of the estate thirty minutes later. The house sat on a cliff, overlooking the Hudson River. It was dark, brooding, made of stone and glass.

The gate was closed. A keypad glowed red on the stone pillar.

Kaycee rolled down the window. She stared at the numbers.

She didn't know the code.

She panicked for a second. Then, a memory surfaced. A drunk Hunter, mumbling something about "the day the stars fell."

May 20th. Her birthday. The day they met as children. And, in another life, the day he died for her. The date was a brand on her soul.

It was too simple. Too sentimental for the cold, ruthless CEO everyone thought he was.

But Hunter wasn't cold. He was just... guarded.

She punched in the numbers.

0 - 5 - 2 - 0.

The keypad beeped green. The heavy iron gates groaned and swung inward.

Kaycee let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Tears pricked her eyes again.

He used her birthday. He used the day they met.

She drove up the winding driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. The house loomed ahead, dark except for a single light on the ground floor.

The study.