Eliseo stepped out of the elevator and froze.
Two burly security guards were dragging Sloane Kensington out of Flavia's apartment door. She was kicking and screaming, her mascara running down her face.
"Eliseo!" Sloane shrieked when she saw him. "Help me! That crazy bitch called security!"
Eliseo stared. Sloane was wearing his shirt. His favorite white shirt.
"Mr. Fitzpatrick," one of the guards said, panting. "Ms. Lancaster reported an intruder. We are executing the removal protocol."
Eliseo's face darkened. Intruder.
Sloane tried to lunge toward him. "I just came to bring you your jacket! I was waiting for you!"
Eliseo took a step back. He looked at her with pure revulsion.
"I didn't invite you."
He looked at the guard. "Get her out of here. Revoke her access. If she steps foot in the lobby again, call the NYPD."
Sloane screamed as they dragged her into the service elevator. The doors closed, cutting off her wails.
Eliseo walked into the apartment.
"Flavia?" he called out.
Silence.
He walked through the living room. Empty. He checked the guest room. Empty. He checked the master bedroom. The closet door was open.
He looked inside. The few items of clothing Flavia kept there were gone. Her trench coat was gone. Her overnight bag was missing.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced his chest.
She left.
He ran to the kitchen. On the marble island, sitting alone in the center, was not a thermos, but a single sheet of paper. An invoice.
He picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, precise.
It was a bill from Lancaster Resolutions for 'Emergency Security Services' and 'Premises Decontamination,' itemized to the last cent.
There was no signature. No "Love, Flavia." No heart.
It was a business transaction.
Eliseo crumpled the invoice in his fist. He sank to the floor, his back against the cabinets. The professional coldness of the gesture was more insulting than any screaming match. It was a clear statement: you are not my partner, you are a client, and a problematic one at that.
He remembered what he had said to her. Walmart clothes. Low maintenance.
And she had just billed him for evicting his childhood friend.
He pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking. He dialed her number.
It rang. And rang. Then voicemail.
He typed a text. 'Where are you? I'm sorry. I didn't know about Sloane. Please come back.'
He stared at the screen, willing the three dots to appear.
Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.
'I'm at a hotel. We need a cooling-off period. I handled the Sloane situation. You're welcome.'
'You're welcome.'
It was so cold. So professional.
Eliseo put the phone down. He could almost feel the cold, hard lump in his throat. The apartment felt massive, a cavern of glass and steel that was slowly crushing him.
His personal cell phone rang. The ringtone was the default, jarring in the quiet kitchen.
He looked at the ID. Family Attorney.
He frowned. It was 9:00 PM.
He answered. "Hello?"
"Eliseo," the lawyer's voice was grave. "I'm afraid I have bad news. Your grandfather, Arthur... he passed away an hour ago."
Eliseo dropped the phone. It clattered onto the tile floor.
He sat there, the phantom scent of Sloane's perfume in the air, as his world completely fell apart.
