Elisha left the study, the image of Hartley's loving gaze in their engagement photograph burning behind her eyes. She needed to see him. She needed to look into his eyes and find the man she had loved since she was sixteen years old.
She walked into her massive walk-in closet and pulled out a cream-colored Chanel suit. She needed to make herself look impeccable today.
She instructed her driver to take her to the Curtis Group headquarters downtown. She picked up lunch from his favorite Italian restaurant, a peace offering, a desperate attempt to smooth over the cracks that had appeared in their perfect facade. Maybe the phone call was just stress. Maybe she was, as he said, inventing problems.
She walked into the gleaming, marble-floored lobby of the Curtis Group. The security guard nodded respectfully. "Mrs. Curtis."
The title felt foreign, almost mocking, on her tongue today.
She took the private elevator to the top floor. Hartley's executive assistant looked up in surprise but smiled warmly. "Elisha! What a lovely surprise."
"I brought Hartley some lunch," she said, forcing a bright smile.
She pushed open the heavy oak door to his office. He was at his desk, staring intently at a computer screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up, and for a split second, a look of pure shock-no, alarm-flashed across his face before being replaced by a tired, practiced smile.
"Elisha. What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood," she lied smoothly, setting the bags down. "I thought you might have forgotten to eat."
He stood up and came around the desk to kiss her cheek. He smelled of his usual sandalwood cologne now. The vanilla was gone.
"Thank you," he said, gesturing for her to sit on the leather sofa. "I was about to order something."
She began unpacking the food, her hands moving with practiced elegance. "Hartley," she began, her voice soft, her heart pounding. "I have something important to tell you."
This was it. She would tell him about the baby now. The news would fix everything.
Just as the words were about to leave her lips, a sharp vibration cut through the air. It came from his desk. It wasn't his work phone; it was his personal one, the one he kept strictly for family. The screen glowed with an incoming call from an unlisted number.
Hartley shot upright. His body went rigid, his focus instantly shifting from her to the phone.
"Hold that thought," he said, his voice suddenly tight, cutting her off without a second thought.
He snatched the phone and walked quickly to the far side of the room, turning his back to her. His voice was too low for her to hear the words, but she could hear the frantic, hushed tone. She strained her ears, and through the quiet hum of the office, she caught the faint, panicked sound of a woman's voice on the other end.
The call lasted less than a minute. When he hung up, he turned around, his face pale and his eyes wide with an urgency she had never seen before.
He didn't even look at her. He strode past the sofa, grabbing his car keys.
"Something's come up," he said, his words clipped. "An emergency. I have to go."
"But... an emergency?" she started to say. "Don't you have a team for that?"
He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and finally looked at her. His eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth. "You don't know what you're talking about," he snapped. And then he was gone.
The heavy door clicked shut. Elisha stood frozen. In his haste, he had knocked over his coffee cup, a dark stain spreading across his pristine desk. Hartley was never clumsy. He was rushing to someone. Someone more important than her.
A hot, furious wave of adrenaline surged through her. She grabbed her purse and strode out of the office, taking the staff elevator down to the underground parking garage. Just as the doors opened, she saw the taillights of Hartley's black Porsche speeding up the ramp.
She ran up to the bustling Manhattan street and threw herself into the back of an idling yellow cab.
"See that black Porsche?" she said to the driver, pushing a crisp hundred-dollar bill through the partition. "Follow it. And don't let him see you."
The driver, a weathered man named Sal, nodded. "I won't lose him, lady."
The cab lurched forward. Elisha gripped the door handle, her knuckles white. The Porsche headed uptown, weaving through traffic until it finally pulled over on a quiet, tree-lined street on the Upper East Side.
Sal parked a discreet distance away. Elisha held her breath, peering through the windshield.
Hartley stepped out of his car. He didn't look like a CEO rushing to a corporate emergency. He looked anxious, expectant. He walked toward the sidewalk, where a slender figure was waiting under the shade of an oak tree.
It was a woman in a flowing white dress, her long dark hair cascading down her back.
As Hartley approached her, his entire demeanor changed. The cold, impatient man who had just left Elisha in his office vanished. He reached out and gently patted the woman's shoulder. She turned and naturally, seamlessly, linked her arm through his. Hartley didn't pull away; instead, he raised his hand and affectionately, tenderly, stroked her hair.
He smiled at her-a smile so warm, so full of genuine adoration, that it felt like a physical knife twisting in Elisha's gut. He carefully shielded her head with his hand as he opened the passenger door, helping her into the car with the utmost care.
Elisha sat in the back of the cab, her world shattering into a million jagged pieces. She had never, not once in their ten years of knowing each other, seen him look at anyone with such profound, unguarded tenderness.
"Follow them," Elisha whispered, her voice cracking, tears blurring her vision as the Porsche pulled away from the curb.
