On the screen, the reporter asked for a reenactment of the goodbye scene.
The camera zoomed in on Cara’s face. The laughter vanished. Her expression shifted instantly.
She looked at Brady. Her eyes filled with tears. Her lip trembled. It was a look of pure, unadulterated devastation. It was a look of love so deep it hurt to witness.
Brittain stopped breathing.
He knew that look. She used to give him that look when he left for business trips.
Was she acting then? Or was she acting now?
If she was acting now, she was a genius. If she wasn’t…
If she wasn’t, then she looked at Brady Roy the way she used to look at him. And that thought was unbearable.
Miles whistled low. “Damn. She loves him. Look at those eyes.”
Brittain felt a roar in his ears. It was the sound of his own ego shattering.
Caryn reached out. “Honey, stop watching. It’s just a movie.”
Brittain pulled his arm away violently. “Don’t touch me.”
On the screen, Brady pulled Cara into a hug. He buried his face in her neck.
CRACK.
The scotch glass in Brittain’s hand exploded. Shards of crystal flew. Amber liquid and bright red blood splattered onto the white tablecloth.
The bar went silent.
Miles jumped up. “Dude! You’re bleeding!”
Brittain didn’t feel the cut. He felt the fire in his veins. He stared at the screen, at the couple embracing.
“Turn it off!” he roared.
The bartender scrambled for the remote. The screen went black.
Brittain stood up. Blood dripped from his hand onto the floor.
He pulled out his phone. He dialed Cara.
Call Failed.
He tried again.
Call Failed.
She had blocked him.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. She wasn’t playing hard to get. She was gone.
He turned to Burrel, who had just walked in.
“Get me everything on Brady Roy,” Brittain snarled. “Dirt. Scandals. Everything. I want him destroyed.”
Caryn tried to hand him a napkin. “Brittain, your hand…”
Brittain pushed past her. He pushed past Miles. He stormed out of the bar.
The rain battered the windshield of the Maybach, distorting the city lights into smears of aggressive neon. He didn’t wait for the driver. He stepped out into the deluge, the water soaking through his bespoke charcoal suit in seconds, chilling skin that was already running cold with a nameless dread.
He moved through the lobby like a storm front, ignoring the receptionist’s tentative greeting. The elevator ride to the penthouse took forty seconds. He watched the numbers climb, his heart hammering a rhythm against his ribs that felt foreign, frantic. He was Brittain Austin. He didn’t panic. He executed. But his hand shook as he punched in the code to the private foyer.
The door slid open.
He was met with silence.
It wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was the silence of a tomb. The air was stale, still.
He hit the light switch. The harsh, cold LEDs flooded the living room. It was pristine. Too pristine. The corner where she usually rolled out her yoga mat was bare. The stack of scripts she kept on the coffee table was gone. The crystal vase in the entryway, which she insisted on filling with fresh peonies every Monday, held only brown, withered stalks and a scattering of dead petals on the marble console.
“Cara?”
His voice cracked. It sounded small in the cavernous space.
He ran to the bedroom. Empty.
He opened the closet. Her clothes were gone. The dresses he bought were there, shrouded in plastic garment bags like corpses, but her sneakers, her jeans, her notebook… gone. She hadn’t taken the things he gave her. She had taken herself.
He walked to the nightstand. The black card sat there, untouched, a sliver of plastic looking impossibly small in the vast, empty room.
Brittain Austin sank onto the bed. He looked at his bleeding hand. The physical pain was finally starting to register, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest.
She didn’t just leave. She erased herself.
And for the first time in his life, Brittain Austin didn’t know what to do.
