Ethan POV:
Where was she?
Her phone went straight to voicemail. Again.
Alissa never ignored my calls. Not unless she was truly, deeply angry.
And she never just... disappeared.
A prickle of unease snaked up my spine. Had I been too harsh?
I cursed under my breath, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I sped down the highway, towards Bella's "broken-down" car.
Damn it, Alissa. This isn't funny.
The image of her, standing alone in the rain, flashed in my mind. She hated being out in the dark. She was terrified of it.
Idiot. You left her stranded.
I circled back, driving past the Italian restaurant, then back to the spot where I' d left her. Nothing.
Her car. Where was her car?
I drove past our apartment building. Dark. All the lights were off.
My stomach clenched. Alissa hated the dark. She always left a light on, especially in the living room.
She always left a light on, just in case I came home late.
A cold dread seeped into my bones.
I parked the car, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the keys. I ran up the stairs, two at a time.
The apartment was pitch black. A heavy, suffocating silence hung in the air.
"Alissa?" My voice echoed in the emptiness.
No answer.
I flicked on every light switch I could find. The apartment flooded with blinding light.
My eyes darted around the room. Something was off.
The coffee table was gone. The bookshelf empty. The art on the walls, gone.
Where was everything?
I walked into the bedroom. Her side of the closet was bare. Her dresser drawers hung open, empty.
My eyes fell on the key hook by the door. The cute, whimsical one she' d picked out.
Only one key hung there. Mine.
Hers was gone.
A sudden, jarring realization. Everything that was "hers," that defined her presence in this space, was gone.
The matching mugs. The twin bedside lamps. The set of bath towels. All the "pair" items were now singular.
A gaping hole where her life used to be.
She's gone.
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow.
She wasn't playing games. She wasn't being dramatic.
She was gone.
A desperate panic seized me. I needed to call her. To explain. To apologize.
"Alissa, baby, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! Come back!" The words tumbled out, raw and choked.
But I knew, even as I spoke them, they were useless. They were the same empty words I'd always offered.
And deep down, a familiar anger stirred. She was pulling her usual stunts. Playing the victim. Trying to manipulate me.
"Fine!" I yelled into the empty apartment. "Don't come back! See if I care!"
Then, a darker thought. Was this about money? Is that why she left? To get more out of me?
I scrolled through my phone, frantically trying to call her, text her. Nothing.
She had blocked me.
I slumped onto the sofa, the harsh overhead lights illuminating the emptiness. I sat there all night, staring at nothing, the silence screaming in my ears.
The ashtray on the coffee table overflowed with cigarette butts.
She hated when I smoked.
I stubbed out another cigarette, then quickly swept the butts into the trash can. She would be home soon. She would be furious.
The doorbell rang. My heart leaped.
"Alissa?" I called out, scrambling to the door.
It was Mrs. Jenkins, our cleaning lady. She looked at me, her eyes wide with concern.
"Mr. Morgan? Are you alright? You look terrible."
"Alissa... she's not here?" My voice was hoarse.
"No, sir. She hasn't been here since yesterday." Mrs. Jenkins looked around the empty apartment. "It looks like she's moved out."
My blood ran cold.
No. She wouldn't. Not Alissa.
She wouldn't miss work. She was too dedicated.
Not Alissa.
