The cold November wind whipped across the tarmac at JFK.
Arianna pulled her coat tighter around her body, dragging her Rimowa suitcase toward the exit. The freezing New York air finally cleared the last lingering fog of her hangover. The sky was a flat, steely gray, the kind of cold that seeped into bones.
She climbed into the back of a yellow cab. The vinyl seats were cracked, the air inside stale with the ghost of old cigarette smoke.
She watched the blur of Manhattan neon lights through the window. She had finished her business trip a day early. She wanted to surprise Gregory. Nine years together, and she still craved the look on his face when she walked through the door unexpectedly.
The cab pulled up to their luxury apartment building in Tribeca, a sleek tower of glass and steel.
Arianna paid the fare. She rolled her suitcase into the lobby, offering a tired but genuine smile to the night security guard behind the marble desk. The lobby was empty, the air heavy with the scent of fresh flowers from a massive arrangement on the center table.
She stepped into the private elevator and pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The car shot upward to the penthouse.
Her heart picked up a familiar, comforting rhythm as the floor numbers climbed.
The elevator doors slid open into their private foyer. She stepped out, deliberately keeping her weight light on the thick Persian rug. The sconces on the walls cast a warm, dim glow.
She slid her key into the lock. She turned it with agonizing slowness.
The lock clicked. The heavy door pushed open an inch.
The living room was dark. The only light came from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the walnut floors. The heavy scent of expensive cigars hung in the air.
From the direction of the massive outdoor terrace, she heard the low murmur of male voices and the sharp clink of ice against crystal. She recognized the loud, booming laugh of Landon Bancroft, a heavyset man with a perpetual sneer, mixed with Preston Ames's annoying drawl. They must have been having one of their regular high-stakes poker nights, though she had assumed the game would have ended hours ago considering it was a weekday.
Arianna left her suitcase by the door. She slipped out of her heels.
Barefoot, she walked silently toward the partially open glass door leading to the terrace. She planned to step out and scare him.
She peeked through the gap in the door.
Gregory was sitting by the gas fire pit. He was tall and lean, his blonde hair carefully styled, his jaw clean-shaven. He wore a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. He held a glass of Macallan whiskey. Three of his wealthy, East Coast trust-fund friends lounged in the chairs around him, their faces illuminated by the orange flames.
Landon Bancroft exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke. His pudgy face split into a mocking grin.
"So, Greg," Landon drawled, his tone taunting. "When are you actually going to give Arianna a ring? It's been almost a decade."
Arianna stopped breathing. Her fingers dug into the cold metal frame of the door. She waited for the answer she had been silently hoping for over the last nine years.
Gregory let out a short, dismissive laugh. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the light catch it.
"Marriage?" Gregory said, his voice casual. "That kind of contract isn't for me. I'm not the marrying type."
Preston Ames chuckled from the other side of the fire, his thin face twisted with amusement. "Good call. She's like a shadow you can't shake off. Zero fun."
Gregory took a sip of his whiskey. His face was completely blank, his pale blue eyes cold.
"Arianna is useful," Gregory said. "She's the best technical mind in the company. And she's convenient for my physical needs. That's all it is."
The words hit Arianna like a physical blow to the stomach.
All the blood drained from her face. A loud ringing started in her ears.
Landon leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Are you still waiting for Angie Everett to sign her divorce papers?"
Gregory's hand stopped moving. For a fraction of a second, something raw and tender crossed his angular face. He didn't say a word, but his silence was a screaming confirmation.
Angie. His stepsister. His untouchable white swan.
A violent cramp seized Arianna's stomach. Bile rose in her throat, burning.
She stumbled backward, acting purely on instinct to get away from the sound of his voice.
Her shoulder clipped the edge of the console table in the dark.
The heavy crystal vase sitting on top of it slid across the polished wood. It made a sharp, screeching sound.
The voices on the terrace stopped instantly.
Gregory snapped his head toward the dark living room. His brows pulled together, his posture suddenly alert.
"Who's there?" he called out sharply.
Arianna slapped both hands over her mouth. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She dropped to her knees, scrambling behind the large sectional sofa, pressing herself into the darkest shadow. The carpet scratched against her palms.
She heard the clink of Gregory setting his glass down.
Heavy footsteps approached the glass door. He pushed it open and stepped into the living room. The floorboards creaked under his weight.
Arianna pressed her spine flat against the back of the sofa. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. She couldn't breathe. If he found her here, she would shatter.
He took another step. He was right at the edge of the sofa.
Suddenly, his iPhone buzzed loudly on the terrace table.
"Greg, your phone!" Landon yelled from outside.
Gregory stopped. He let out an annoyed breath, turned around, and walked back out to the fire pit. The glass door slid shut behind him.
The second his back was turned, Arianna pushed herself off the floor.
She grabbed her heels in one hand. Moving like a ghost, she bolted silently across the living room, her bare feet soundless on the walnut floors.
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, pulled the front door open, and fled the penthouse. She threw herself into the freezing, unforgiving New York night.
She didn't go far. She hailed a cab and gave an address in Brooklyn. She needed to disappear into a part of the city where no one knew her name.
