Chapter 8

Alex stood on the terrace of the Hamptons beach club, a glass of champagne in his hand.

The party buzzed around him, a blur of familiar faces and forced smiles.

Tori was at his side, laughing at something one of their friends said.

But Alex felt a strange unease, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck.

His heart suddenly raced, for no apparent reason.

Maya.

The thought of her, unbidden, sharp, pierced through the noise.

He excused himself abruptly, muttering something about a phone call.

Tori looked surprised, then annoyed.

"Alex, where are you going? The Harrisons just arrived."

He ignored her, striding quickly through the crowd, his unease growing with every step.

He needed to get back to the city.

He needed to see Maya.

Tori watched him go, a frown marring her perfect features.

She'd thought, after Maya's pathetic display at the auction, after the "accident," that Alex was finally done with that little charity case.

She'd moved her things into the penthouse. Their wedding was being planned.

Everything was falling into place.

Alex was hers. He had to be.

Alex drove back to Manhattan, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

He parked haphazardly in front of the penthouse building, not waiting for the valet.

He rode the private elevator up, his heart pounding.

"Maya?" he called out as he burst into the apartment.

Silence.

The penthouse was still, eerily quiet.

He walked through the rooms, his calls echoing unanswered.

"Maya?"

A knot of dread tightened in his stomach.

When was the last time she'd answered him? Truly answered him?

Not with monosyllables, or that dead, empty look in her eyes.

He remembered her small, pale face in the hospital, the way she flinched from his touch.

He remembered her in Brooklyn, her laughter like wind chimes, her eyes full of love for him.

He'd been so dismissive, so cruel.

He'd fix it. He'd apologize. He'd make it up to her. He had to.

Then he saw it.

Her side of the closet, empty.

Her worn art supplies, gone.

The cheap novels she loved, gone.

The framed photo of them from Brooklyn, face down on the table.

The keys to the penthouse, lying beside it.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at his throat.

She wouldn't. She couldn't.

She loved him. Didn't she?

He stumbled back, his legs suddenly weak.

His phone rang, shrill and insistent.

He ignored it. It was probably Tori, wondering where he was.

He sank onto the sofa, his head in his hands.

The door buzzed. He ignored that too.

The buzzing persisted, then the sound of a key in the lock.

His mother swept in, her expression disapproving.

"Alexander! What is the meaning of this? Leaving Tori alone at the party? Your phone has been ringing off the hook."

She surveyed the room, her gaze sharp.

"And where is that girl? Finally had the good sense to make herself scarce, I hope."