"Call her." I shoved the final page of the divorce appendix against Dean’s chest.
He caught the thick paper before it fluttered to the flooded floorboards. "Mara, it's one in the morning."
"She printed the name of my bookstore under the cohabitation clause. She knew you were coming here." I pointed at his smartphone resting on the glass checkout counter. "Video call. Right now. Put it on speaker. I want her on record admitting she set this trap."
Dean stared at the typed address, his jaw rigid. He snatched his phone, tapped the screen twice, and hit the video icon. The line rang out in the quiet shop. One ring. Two.
The screen connected.
Celeste appeared, perfectly framed. She sat on a plush velvet sofa, sipping from a ceramic mug. Not a single strand of hair looked out of place. She looked entirely too calm for a woman who had just locked her husband out in a blizzard.
"Dean," Celeste greeted, her voice smooth and unbothered. "You made excellent time in the snow."
I stepped into the frame, leaning over Dean’s shoulder. "Why is my address in this document, Celeste?"
She smiled. The expression didn't reach her eyes. "Mara. It's so nice to finally see you. I’m glad you two don’t have to hide anymore. It must be exhausting, pretending for a decade."
"We aren't hiding anything," I snapped. "You orchestrated this. You sent him here."
Celeste tilted her head, her gaze shifting slightly on the screen. "And you're wearing the old Bellweather crew shirt, Dean. A classic choice."
My stomach dropped. I glanced at the faded black cotton stretching across Dean's shoulders.
"How did you know this shirt was here?" I demanded, leaning closer to the phone.
"The better question, Mara," Celeste countered, her tone sharpening into something metallic, "is why you kept another woman's husband's clothing in your closet for ten long years."
"Stop dragging her into our mess, Celeste," Dean barked. He gripped the phone tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "She has nothing to do with us."
"Your mess, Dean," Celeste corrected. She reached off-camera and brought a second phone into view. "I’m just cleaning it up."
She tapped a button. A grainy audio recording crackled through the speaker.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Dr. Aris." Dean’s exhausted voice echoed from the small device. "I made a choice. But Mara... Mara is the kind of life I missed out on."
A sharp click ended the recording.
I stopped breathing. The silence in the bookstore shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. I stared at the dark screen of Dean's phone. Celeste had ended the call.
"Mara," Dean started, lowering the device.
I backed away, putting a display table of winter thrillers between us. A dry, humorless laugh scraped its way up my throat. "You talked about me in couples therapy."
"She played five seconds of a two-hour session," Dean said, stepping around the table. "Dr. Aris asked me about past regrets. I told him the truth. But I also told him you were a closed door. I told him I would never contact you, and I never did."
"You told your wife I was the life you missed out on." My voice shook.
Ten years of wondering. Ten years of convincing myself the time at the mill meant nothing, that the almost-kiss on the scaffolding was just a trick of the summer heat. He had thought about it. He had carried it with him right into his marriage.
Dean closed the distance between us before I could retreat again. The scent of cold rain and wet wool clung to him.
"I never forgot you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rasp.
He lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed my jawline. His thumb caught a wet strand of hair plastered to my cheek from the broken radiator pipe, gently sweeping it behind my ear. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the freezing draft leaking through the front windows.
My pulse hammered against my throat. His eyes dropped to my mouth. The space between us vanished, the air suddenly thick and heavy. He leaned in, the shadow of his jaw grazing my chin.
I shoved my hands against his chest and pushed hard.
"No." I stumbled back, my boots scraping against the hardwood. "This is exactly what she wants."
Dean blinked, dropping his hand as if the fire alarm had just gone off.
"She wants us to cross the line," I said, my voice gaining strength. "She wants the four hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She is tracking us."
I spun around and marched toward the foyer. Dean’s leather suitcase sat exactly where he had dropped it on the rug. I dropped to my knees and yanked the heavy zipper open.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked, following me into the hall.
"Checking for the trap." I flipped the leather lid back.
The contents were neatly folded. Crisp dress shirts, dark slacks, a cashmere sweater.
"Did you pack this?" I asked, tossing a stack of shirts onto the floor.
"No," Dean said, crouching beside me. "Celeste packed it while I was gathering my office files."
I unzipped the mesh side pocket. A heavy glass bottle slid out, followed by a velvet pouch. I picked up the bottle. Tom Ford cologne. His exact scent. I opened the velvet pouch and pulled out two stemless crystal wine glasses.
I held them up. "She packed you two glasses for a solo hotel stay?"
Dean stared at the crystal. His jaw clenched. He reached for the suitcase, his large hands grabbing the plastic housing of the telescoping handle. He ran his fingers along the underside of the thick grip.
His hand stopped.
"There's a lump inside the plastic," he muttered, pressing his thumb against a tiny gap in the seam. "It doesn't belong to the handle mechanism."
I stood up and slapped the foyer light switch down.
Total darkness swallowed the hallway.
"Look," I whispered.
Deep inside the narrow crack of the plastic handle, a microscopic green light blinked. Once. Twice. Steady and rhythmic.
A hidden camera.
Before either of us could move, my cell phone vibrated against the floorboards where I had dropped it. The screen flared bright white in the dark foyer. An unknown number flashed across the glass.
One new message.
"Don't stop. I'm watching."
