Jonathan POV:
The familiar hum of the Tesla was a constant comfort as Jonathan drove back to the penthouse. Kesha was safe, back in her own apartment, shaken but recovering. He had spent the last few hours soothing her, assuring her of his devotion, and blaming Anya for everything. Anya, with her hysteria, her unfounded jealousy, her dramatic attacks.
He pulled into the underground garage, the silence of the empty space enveloping him. He expected Anya to be waiting, perhaps a tearful apology, perhaps another dramatic confrontation. She always made a scene. He had left her at the hospital, knowing she was fine. A little bump on the head, that' s all. She' d been through worse. She was just playing the victim, as usual.
He took the private elevator up to the penthouse, the anticipation a dull ache in his chest. He expected yelling, accusations, maybe even a thrown vase. He was ready for it. He' d deal with it, just like he always did. Anya would eventually calm down, and they' d go back to their delicate truce.
The elevator doors opened. The penthouse was silent. Too silent.
He walked into the vast living room, his footsteps echoing on the polished marble. No lights were on. No scent of Anya' s perfume, no sound of her music. Just an unnerving stillness.
"Anya?" he called out, his voice sounding oddly loud in the emptiness.
No answer.
He checked the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, not a single crease in the silk sheets. Her side of the closet was open, but nothing seemed to be missing. Her vanity table, usually cluttered with expensive creams and jewelry, was pristine.
He frowned. This wasn' t like her. She usually left a trail of chaos in her wake when she was angry. A note, a half-eaten meal, a discarded outfit. But there was nothing. It was as if she had vanished.
He walked to the kitchen, then the study. Every room was perfectly in order, a chilling testament to her absence. He felt a prickle of unease. Had she gone to her mother' s? Or perhaps to one of her art dealer friends? But she always told him. Or left him a scathing text.
His gaze fell on the housekeeper, Maria, who was tidying up the kitchen. "Maria, where' s Anya?"
Maria looked up, her expression placid. "Mrs. Collins left this afternoon, Mr. Gross. She had a driver take her."
"Left?" Jonathan frowned. "For how long?"
"I' m not sure, sir. She only took a small suitcase." Maria' s eyes held a hint of concern. "She seemed… very determined."
A small suitcase? That didn' t sound like Anya taking a dramatic break. A cold sensation started to spread through Jonathan' s chest. He remembered their last interaction, his rage, her bleeding arm. His hands had been around her throat. He had left her gasping for air. He had threatened her.
A sudden, sharp memory of her face, pale and defiant, flashed in his mind. The way she had looked at him, not with fear, but with a cold, unwavering fury.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the creeping dread. She was just trying to scare him. To make him feel guilty. Classic Anya. But the unease persisted.
Kesha walked into the living room, her eyes still a little puffy from crying, but a subtle smugness playing around her lips. "Is Anya gone? Good. Maybe now we can have some peace." She saw the worry on Jonathan' s face. "What' s wrong, baby? Don' t tell me you' re actually worried about her."
Jonathan ignored her, his mind racing. Anya never stayed out all night without at least a hint. And after what he' d done… He felt a sudden, sickening jolt of premonition.
He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly. He scrolled to Anya' s contact, pressed dial. The phone rang once, twice, then a synthesized voice cut in: "The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."
Jonathan' s eyes widened, his pupils constricting. "What?" he muttered, disbelief coloring his voice. He tried again. The same automated message. Not a busy signal. Not voicemail. Not in service.
His blood ran cold. This wasn' t a game. This wasn' t typical Anya drama. She had changed her number. She had… disappeared. The last image of her, crumpled on the ground, gasping for breath, flashed vividly in his mind.
"Jonathan? What' s wrong?" Kesha asked, her voice tinged with genuine concern this time, seeing the terror in his eyes.
He couldn't answer. His throat felt tight. His hands were clammy. He tried to think, to rationalize. But the memory of his own violence, the coldness in her eyes, the complete silence of the penthouse…
The doorbell suddenly chimed, a polite, almost cheerful sound that felt horribly out of place. Jonathan flinched, his heart leaping into his throat.
Maria was already headed for the door. "I' ll get it, Mr. Gross."
"No!" Jonathan barked, a raw, desperate sound. Every fiber of his being screamed at him not to open that door. A cold dread, heavier than anything he' d ever felt, settled over him. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that whatever was on the other side of that door was meant for him. And it wasn' t good.
Maria paused, startled by his tone.
Jonathan took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain his composure. "I' ll get it," he said, his voice strained. He walked towards the door, each step heavy, like lead. He could feel Kesha' s eyes on his back, her silent question hanging in the air.
He peered through the peephole. A uniformed delivery man stood on the other side, holding a large, flat package. Jonathan' s stomach clenched. A package. For him. From Anya? He didn't want it. He didn't want anything from her.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
The delivery man knocked again, a little louder this time. "Mr. Jonathan Gross? Package delivery."
"Jonathan? Who is it?" Kesha called out, her voice laced with impatience.
He couldn' t ignore it. Not now. Not when his whole world felt like it was teetering on the edge of a precipice. He opened the door a crack, his eyes narrowed.
"Sign here, sir," the delivery man said, holding out a digital pad and a pen.
Jonathan' s hand was shaking as he signed. His mind was screaming, Don' t take it. Don' t open it. But he couldn' t stop himself. He paid the delivery fee, his fingers fumbling with the bills. He took the package, thick and heavy, and watched the delivery man leave.
He turned, the package clutched in his hands. Kesha was standing in the middle of the living room, watching him, her face a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
His breath hitched. His eyes felt cold, hollow. He knew. He didn't even need to open it. He knew. His gaze was fixed on the package, but his mind raced, a terrifying whirlwind of possibilities. His body felt heavy, rooted to the spot, his muscles rigid with a dread that was quickly turning into terror. His breathing became shallow, rapid, as if the air itself was too thick to inhale. He stared, unseeing, at the brown paper, his world teetering on the brink of an unknown, terrifying future.
