Chapter 3

The bedroom was pitch black when Chloe heard the front door of the penthouse open. She lay perfectly still in the center of the massive king-size bed, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:14 AM.

Heavy footsteps moved through the hallway. The door to the bedroom opened, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway before closing again. Bentley moved quietly, the rustle of fabric filling the silence as he shed his suit.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The scent hit Chloe immediately. It wasn't just the rain. Underneath the damp wool of his coat, there was a faint, unmistakable smell of hospital antiseptic. The same sterile smell that had clung to the corridors of NewYork-Presbyterian.

He lay down beside her, shifting closer. His arm draped over her waist, pulling her back against his chest. It was a familiar gesture, one that used to make her feel safe. Now, his skin felt like ice against hers.

Chloe's entire body went rigid. Every muscle in her back tightened. Her breath hitched in her throat, a physical rejection of his touch.

Bentley noticed. He paused, his hand resting on her hip. "Sore?" he murmured, his lips brushing against the back of her neck. He thought it was the hand. He thought she was just in pain.

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice cracking. She shifted away, rolling onto her side and pulling her injured hand up to her chest, using it as a shield. "The stitches are throbbing."

Bentley didn't argue. He just tightened his arm around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. Within minutes, his breathing deepened, his body going heavy with sleep.

Chloe lay there, a statue in the dark. The warmth radiating from his chest felt toxic. She stared at the faint orange glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. All she could see was the back of his head as he kissed that woman's hand. All she could hear was his voice saying, They found her.

She tried to slide his arm off her waist. She lifted his wrist, moving it inch by inch. But as soon as she let go, his arm twitched. He pulled her back, tighter this time, his face burying into her hair.

And then he spoke.

"Blair."

It was a sigh. A soft, sleeping exhale that brushed against her ear. But the name was distinct. Unmistakable.

Chloe stopped breathing. The air in the room seemed to vanish. The sound of her own heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the rain outside. He was holding her. He was in their bed. And he was calling her by another woman's name.

Tears spilled over her lashes, hot and silent, soaking into the pillow. She clamped her jaw shut so hard her teeth ached, trapping the scream inside her throat. She didn't move for the rest of the night.

When the morning light finally crept into the room, it felt like an assault. Chloe sat up, her eyes gritty and swollen. Bentley was already awake. He was standing in the walk-in closet, fully dressed in a fresh charcoal suit. He was adjusting his gold cufflinks, his reflection sharp in the mirror.

Chloe dragged herself out of bed and walked into the en-suite bathroom. She didn't look at the cracked mirror. She turned on the cold water and splashed it over her face, the shock of it doing nothing to wake her up from the nightmare.

She pulled on a cream turtleneck sweater, the high collar covering her neck, a physical barrier. When she walked out, Bentley was slipping on his loafers.

"You're up early," he said, glancing at her. He avoided her eyes, focusing on his watch. "How's the hand?"

"Fine," Chloe said. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor.

Bentley walked toward her, his arms opening slightly for their usual morning kiss. Chloe reacted on instinct. She took a half-step back, her shoulder hitting the doorframe.

Bentley froze, his arms dropping to his sides. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, followed by a tight frown. "Everything okay?"

"I'm just tired," Chloe said quickly. "I didn't sleep well."

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze searching. Then he checked his watch again. "I have an early meeting. I'll be home late tonight."

"Okay."

He turned and walked toward the front door. He didn't look back.

The moment the elevator doors dinged shut, Chloe's knees gave out. She slid down the doorframe, hitting the hardwood floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, the gauze on her hand glaring white against her dark jeans.

A few minutes later, Maura appeared, carrying a silver tray. On it was a cup of steaming tea and a small plate of toast.

"Mrs. Morrow, Mr. Morrow asked me to make sure you drink this," Maura said gently, setting the tray on the coffee table. "It's your herbal tea. He said it will help you sleep better tonight, since your hand is bothering you."

Chloe stared at the cup. The amber liquid swirled gently, releasing a fragrant steam. Chamomile and valerian root. For three years, Bentley had insisted she drink a cup every single night. For your health, Chloe. You need your rest.

She reached out, her fingers brushing the warm porcelain. She thought of the way he had held her last night. She thought of the name he had whispered. She thought of the locked drawer.

She picked up the cup. She raised it to her lips. The smell of the herbs suddenly made her stomach turn. Was it just tea? Was it ever just tea?

She pulled the cup away. She stood up, walked into the kitchen, and poured the entire contents down the sink. The brown liquid swirled down the drain, disappearing into the darkness.

She went back to the study. She picked the lock again, faster this time. She pulled out the Moleskine notebook and flipped to the last page. It was blank. There were no new entries.

But it didn't matter. The blank page was proof enough. He had nothing left to say to her. His heart was already full, written over with the name of a ghost.

She closed the book and locked it away.