Default settings. That's what she was to him. A default setting until the custom model was available again.
A black sedan pulled up to the curb beside her. The window rolled down. It was the Dyer family driver.
"Mrs. Dyer," the driver said, looking apologetic. "Mr. Dyer senior insists you return to the Hamptons. He says the 'optics' of you wandering Manhattan alone are unacceptable."
Johnna laughed. Of course. The eye of Sauron was watching.
"And if I refuse?"
"He mentioned something about your mother's mortgage," the driver said quietly.
Johnna closed her eyes. They played dirty. They played to win.
She opened the back door and got in.
Chadwick was already there. He must have circled back through the hospital service exit to beat her to the car while she was walking. He looked exhausted.
"Did you use the card?" he asked.
"No," she said. She tossed the card onto his lap. "I don't want your money, Chadwick. I want out."
He picked up the card, turning it over in his fingers. "You used to like it when I bought you things."
"I liked it when you looked at me," she corrected. "Really looked at me."
The drive back to the Hamptons was a funeral procession. The silence was heavy with things unsaid.
When they arrived, Grandfather was waiting in the library. He gave them a lecture on duty and image. He forbade them from leaving the estate for the next 48 hours until the "Ansley situation" was spun by PR.
Dinner was skipped. They went straight to the room.
"I need a bath," Johnna said. She felt dirty. She felt covered in the slime of the hospital and the lies.
She locked herself in the bathroom. She filled the tub with scalding water. She scrubbed her skin until it was red and raw. She wanted to wash off the feeling of being a duplicate.
She stayed in the water until it turned cold.
When she finally wrapped herself in a robe and stepped out, the room was dim.
Chadwick was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was holding something.
Her phone.
The screen was lit up, casting a ghostly blue glow on his face. His expression was terrifying. It wasn't the detached coldness of the morning. It was a burning, focused rage.
Johnna froze. "What are you doing?"
Chadwick stood up slowly. He turned the phone around so she could see the screen.
It was a notification from an auction house app.
New Listing Alert: Neal's Auction House. Curator: Jeremie Neal.
"Who is he?" Chadwick asked. His voice was low, dangerous.
Johnna's heart hammered. "Give me my phone."
"Who is Jeremie Neal?" Chadwick repeated, stepping closer. "Why do you have alerts set for him?"
"He's an auctioneer," Johnna lied, snatching the phone from his hand. "I follow the market. It's for work."
"You follow the market," Chadwick repeated skeptically. "You're a receptionist."
"I told you, I work at a gallery," she snapped.
Chadwick stared at her. He was looking for a crack. He was jealous. Even though he was divorcing her, even though he was holding Ansley's hand hours ago, the thought of her with another man drove him mad.
"Is he the one?" Chadwick asked. "Is he 'Jay'?"
Johnna's breath hitched. Jeremie. Jay. It was close. Too close.
"You're paranoid," she said. "Go to sleep, Chadwick."
She climbed into the bed, turning her back to him. She pulled the covers up to her chin.
Chadwick stood there for a long time. Finally, she heard him sigh. He turned off the light and lay down on the sofa.
But the air in the room remained charged, electric with suspicion.
---
