Chapter 5

Two days later, Alistair had Cordelia transferred from the hospital. The private recovery villa on the outskirts of the city smelled of expensive lilies and old money.

Alistair pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside. He expected to find Cordelia in bed. Instead, the room was empty.

A soft, melancholic melody drifted from the corner of the massive suite.

Alistair turned. Cordelia was sitting on the bench of a black Steinway grand piano. She wore a floor-length white silk nightgown. Her bare feet barely touched the pedals. She looked like a porcelain doll that would shatter if touched too hard.

It was the exact same Steinway he had bought for her six years ago.

Her slender fingers danced over the keys, playing Chopin's Nocturne. It was the song she used to play for him when the world got too loud.

The music wrapped around Alistair's throat, pulling him backward in time.

The final chord echoed through the room and faded into silence.

Cordelia slowly turned around. Tears spilled over her lower lashes, tracking down her pale cheeks.

"Alistair," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Do you remember this song?"

Alistair's Adam's apple bobbed. He swallowed hard. He gave a single, stiff nod.

Cordelia stood up. She walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. She stopped inches from his chest. She tilted her head up, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his.

Then, her gaze dropped.

She looked at the stiff collar of his charcoal suit. She reached up. Her index finger traced the edge of his collar, lightly brushing against the skin of his neck.

Right over the faint, reddish-purple bruise Eleanor had left there that morning.

Her touch was as light as a feather, but it felt like a needle stabbing into Alistair's skin.

Cordelia's hand dropped. A flash of deep, agonizing hurt crossed her eyes, followed instantly by a dark shadow of jealousy. She blinked rapidly, forcing the innocent, broken expression back onto her face.

"She..." Cordelia's voice cracked. "She must love you very much."

The words hit Alistair's chest like a physical weight. A sudden, violent wave of suffocation gripped his lungs. The air in the room felt too thin.

He took a sharp step backward, physically putting distance between them. He reached up and adjusted his left cufflink, his fingers moving with frantic, nervous energy.

"You need to rest," Alistair said. His voice was rough, almost a bark. "I have to go back."

Cordelia didn't reach for him. She stood perfectly still, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

As Alistair turned his back and walked toward the door, she spoke. Her voice was so quiet it was almost a ghost.

"I'll wait for you."

It was past midnight when the front door of the Montgomery estate clicked open.

Alistair walked into the grand foyer. The house was pitch black, save for a single lamp glowing in the main living room. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, rolling his shoulders to release the crushing tension in his muscles.

He froze.

Eleanor was sitting on the velvet sofa. She was still wearing the beige dress from this morning. A cup of untouched, cold tea sat on the glass table in front of her.

She stood up. She didn't yell. She didn't cry. She walked slowly toward him, her face completely unreadable.

Alistair's stomach tightened. He braced himself for the screaming, for the tears, for the accusations about the dirt road.

Eleanor stopped exactly one step away from him.

She reached her hand out.

Alistair flinched slightly, expecting a slap.

Instead, Eleanor's hand landed softly on the lapel of his suit jacket. She smoothed the fabric, brushing away an invisible piece of lint. It was the gesture of a dutiful, loving wife.

But as she leaned in, her nose flared slightly.

The scent hit her instantly.

It wasn't the smell of a hospital. It was a perfume. White tea mixed with heavy musk. It was cold, expensive, and aggressively territorial. It was clinging to the fabric of his suit, right where a woman's head would rest during a hug.

Eleanor's hand stopped moving.

She lifted her chin and looked directly into Alistair's dark eyes.

Alistair felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. The absolute stillness in her eyes was terrifying.

"I..." Alistair started, his voice faltering. He didn't even know what he was going to say.

Eleanor didn't let him finish. She pulled her hand back and took a step away.

A slow, chilling smile curved the corners of her lips. It didn't reach her eyes. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated mockery.

"Welcome home, Alistair," she said softly.

She turned around and walked up the grand staircase. Her spine was perfectly straight. She didn't look back once.

Alistair stood frozen in the foyer. The silence of the house pressed in on him, heavier than it had ever been.

He looked down at his sleeve. He lifted his wrist to his nose and inhaled.

The white tea and musk. Cordelia.

He had thought he was in control. He thought he could handle the situation. But Eleanor's calm, mocking smile had just ripped the floor out from under him. Her nose was too sharp. Her intuition was lethal.

That night, Alistair walked into the master bedroom, but Eleanor wasn't there. She had moved her things to the guest room down the hall.

Alistair lay on his side of the massive, cold bed. He stared at the ceiling. For the first time in five years, the absence of Eleanor's body heat next to him made his chest ache with a hollow, buzzing panic.

He didn't sleep a single minute.