Chapter 2 2

Brianna's high heels clicked rapidly against the marble floor, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Longing surged forth with every step she took.

She reached the door.

The elevator doors slid open slowly with a soft hydraulic hum. Hartwell Rogers filled the entire doorway, his shoulders blocking the corridor light. Rain dripped incessantly from his hair, pooling in small puddles around his shoes. He stood motionless, soaked and cold, his face sharper and more biting than the storm raging outside.

Her smile froze halfway on her lips, then faded entirely.

"You..." She reached toward him instinctively, three months of longing and absence condensed into that single gesture. Her fingertips had barely brushed his suit lapel.

Hartwell moved slightly-so faintly it was almost imperceptible, yet her hand met only empty air. He stepped around her and entered the apartment, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the Persian rug she had chosen for their second anniversary.

"Your coat," she said softly to his back. "Let me..."

"I'll do it myself." His voice was flat. He peeled off his cashmere overcoat, soaked through with rain, and tossed it carelessly onto an antique armchair. The dull thud of the wet garment landing carried a suffocating indifference. Only then did he turn, his gaze sweeping coldly over the room.

Brianna's hand froze at her side, fingers digging tightly into her palms, her nails leaving crescent marks on her skin. She watched him walk toward the living room, each step leaving muddy prints on a rug worth more than an ordinary person's monthly salary.

"Hartwell." She followed, struggling to keep her tone steady, just as she had always done gently when he came home from tense board meetings. "The storm was terrible. Were you delayed at the airport? I made dinner, and I..."

His gaze fell on the dining table. The coq au vin in red wine, the open wine bottle, and the wine stain on her dress she had tried to hide by shifting her posture.

A flicker of something almost unnoticeable crossed his expression. His jaw tightened for a second, as if in remembrance. But it vanished at once, replaced by the icy mask he wore in financial magazines-the look he reserved for taking over struggling companies.

"So this is how you spent your entire day." It was not a question, but a complete dismissal. "Pointless."

Brianna's throat tightened instantly. "I wanted to celebrate. You're home..."

"There's nothing to celebrate."

He walked to the bar and picked up a bottle of 25-year-old Macallan with practiced ease. The amber liquid filled the glass, and he downed it in one gulp, his hand perfectly steady. Everything about him seemed calm and restrained-except for the pulse pounding beneath his temple, racing wildly against the composure he forced.

She stepped closer, close enough to catch his scent. Beneath the rain, there was another fragrance. It alerted her at once-the woman who could once identify a perfume by its top notes alone-and she knew exactly what it was.

Isobutyl sandalate, ambroxan. The synthetic base of a niche Parisian perfume, sold only by appointment at a boutique on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

"Who is she?"

The glass clattered sharply against the marble bar, the sound making her flinch. Hartwell turned, his grey-green eyes cold as the winter Atlantic, sweeping over her with the detached indifference of a coroner examining evidence.

"What are you talking about?"

"Three months." Her voice trembled uncontrollably, and she hated herself for it. "Three months with no word, and you come back smelling of another woman's perfume."

He laughed. The sound cut deeper than silence. "You're imagining things again. Just like always."

"Then explain-"

"A waste of time." He cut her off lightly, as if her words meant nothing, as if the explanation she craved was utterly insignificant to him.

Brianna stepped back until her back hit the bookshelf. The wine stain on her dress felt like a glaring brand, obvious and humiliating. Hartwell's gaze lingered on the mark, a contemptuous curve tugging at his lips.

"You look a mess. Instead of fixating on me, you should fix yourself."

Tears finally broke free, hot and shameful, streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably. Through blurred vision, she looked at him, desperately searching for the man who had once wiped her tears with his thumb, called her his muse in interviews, who had once...

His hands were in his pockets. She could see the tense outline beneath the fabric-a fist clenched tight at his thigh.

"Come with me." he said in a low voice.

The study door closed behind him, the sound like a gunshot.