Chapter 5 The Distance Between Us

The morning after the photo arrived, Sloane found herself unable to shake the image.

Grayson, standing beside a man she didn't recognize, looked different. Not younger, just colder. There was something in his expression she hadn't seen before.

And the warning on the back of the photo?

It echoed in her thoughts louder than her own heartbeat.

> Don't trust him. Not with your heart. Not with your life.

She didn't go into the office that day.

Instead, she stood at the stove in her apartment, flipping pancakes while Liam sat at the kitchen table,scribbling over sheet music and muttering to himself.

"Flat," he said, scribbling something out. "Way too flat. Ugh."

Sloane smiled faintly. "Do you want blueberries or chocolate chips?"

"Both," he mumbled.

"I regret asking."

"Too late. You're my sister and my chef."

"You're lucky I love you."

He grinned without looking up. "I know."

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Liam glanced at her hand.

"Are you wearing a wedding ring?"

She paused mid-bite.

"Yeah."

"When did you get married?"

Sloane wiped her mouth, buying time. "Recently."

Liam frowned. "Wait. What? To whom? You've been single for, like, ever."

"Thanks for that."

"I'm serious. You didn't even date last year."

"It happened fast," she said softly. "We eloped."

His eyes narrowed. "Is this about money?"

"No," she said too quickly. "Well, not exactly. It's more complicated than that."

"Is he nice?"

Sloane hesitated.

Grayson wasn't nice. But he wasn't cruel either. He was something else.

"He's complicated," she said. "But he's never hurt me."

Liam tapped his pencil on the table. "Are you happy?"

"I'm surviving."

He gave her a long look. "You know I don't care if he's rich. If he makes you cry, I'll throw my keyboard at him."

She laughed. "Noted."

"Just don't disappear on me," he said quietly. "You're all I've got, Sloane."

Her chest tightened.

"You're not losing me," she whispered. "I promise."

But even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed it.

Later that afternoon, Sloane took the envelope with the mysterious photo and brought it to Astor Enterprises.

She didn't go through the main entrance.

Instead, she slipped into the underground parking garage and took the private elevator Grayson used when avoiding the press.

She found him in his office, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair mussed from hours of meetings.

He looked up when she entered.

"You didn't text," he said.

"I didn't need to."

She walked over, placed the envelope on his desk, and folded her arms.

"Tell me who that man is."

Grayson opened the envelope. His eyes scanned the photo.

His expression darkened.

"Where did you get this?"

"It was left at my door."

He set the photo down slowly. "That man is Elias Monroe."

Sloane's heart stuttered. "Alyssa's father?"

Grayson nodded. "CEO of Monroe Ventures. Former business partner of my father."

"Former?"

"Elias and Jonathan Astor were friends once. Until my father got greedy."

He didn't elaborate.

"Why would he leave a message like this?"

Grayson didn't answer.

Instead, he walked to the window and stared out over the city.

"Five years ago, Alyssa and I were engaged. It was convenient. The Astors and the Monroe's were aligned old money, family image, clean PR. Our engagement solidified a partnership."

"So it wasn't real?"

"I cared about her," he said. "But it was built on a facade. The wedding was supposed to fix what our fathers broke."

"What happened?"

"She vanished two weeks before the wedding. No note. No trace. Just gone. Her family pulled the police report within 24 hours."

"And you?"

"I looked for her," he said quietly. "For months. But there was nothing."

Sloane frowned. "Why do I feel like there's something you're still not telling me?"

He turned to her, jaw tight. "Because there is. But if I tell you, you can't walk away."

"I'm already married to you, remember?"

He nodded once. Then, finally, he crossed the room and pulled a leather file from his safe.

He handed it to her.

Inside were more photos. Receipts. Emails.

Sloane sat slowly as she flipped through them.

They were surveillance shots. Alyssa in various places. Not gone. Not dead.

Hidden.

"You found her?"

"Two years ago. In Berlin. She was working under an alias at a gallery."

Sloane stared at the images. "Why didn't you bring her back?"

"Because she didn't want to be found."

"Then why did you keep this?"

"In case she ever resurfaced. I needed to know why she left."

Sloane met his gaze. "And if she comes back?"

Grayson was silent.

And that silence said everything.

Sloane left the office just after sunset. Her head pounded. Her thoughts spiraled.

If Alyssa was alive If she was watching

Then why warn her?

Why now?

Her phone buzzed as she stepped into the elevator.

A message from a private number.

> We need to talk. Tonight. Don't tell him. Corner of 78th and West End. 9 pm

No name.

No context.

But she knew.

It was Alyssa.

At exactly 9:00 p.m., Sloane stood beneath the glow of a flickering street lamp on the corner of 78th and West End Avenue.

Rain misted the pavement. Her coat clung to her skin.

Then footsteps behind her.

A voice, quiet but firm.

"Sloane Hart-Astor. You're in danger. And if you don't walk away from Grayson now you won't survive this marriage."