Dennie felt it before she saw it. A gaze so heavy it felt like a sniper's laser dot between her shoulder blades.
She whipped her head around, looking up at the dark glass of the VIP balcony. She couldn't see anything but her own reflection, distorted and small. But her instincts were screaming. Run.
The Uber arrived. She shoved Sarah into the backseat and dove in after her.
"Go," she told the driver.
As the car pulled away, Holmes stepped out of the shadows of the club entrance. He watched the taillights fade.
"That was your wife?" Quentin asked, handing Holmes a cigar. "The 'trophy'?"
Holmes lit the cigar. The flame illuminated the sharp angles of his face. "It appears I bought a mystery box."
"She fights like she's been trained to kill," Quentin said. "Be careful, Holmes. You don't know who is sleeping in your bed."
"Get the car," Holmes ordered. "I want the security footage."
Dennie got back to the manor. Her heart was still racing. She checked the piece of tape she'd placed on the bottom of her bedroom door. It was intact. No one had entered.
She scrubbed the makeup off her face. She put the silk nightgown back on. She tried to slow her breathing, to become Dennie Wilson again. But the adrenaline was still humming in her blood.
Thirty minutes later, she heard his footsteps in the hall.
She lay in bed, feigning sleep. The door opened.
He didn't turn on the light. He walked to the side of the bed. She could feel his presence looming over her.
He didn't speak. He reached down. His fingers, cool and dry, brushed her cheek. Then they slid down to her neck. He didn't press like a doctor; it was more predatory. His thumb and forefinger rested lightly on either side of her throat, feeling the frantic, rabbit-fast thrum of her pulse.
He knew she wasn't asleep. He knew she was terrified. He was savoring it.
"Who are you?" he whispered into the dark.
He stood there for another minute, then turned and left.
She opened her eyes. She stared at the ceiling. He knew. He didn't know what, but he knew something.
The next morning, the dining room was a tomb.
Holmes was reading the paper. He didn't look up when Dennie entered.
"About the divorce filing..." Dennie started, testing the waters.
He folded the newspaper. He looked at her. There was a new light in his eyes. Amusement. Curiosity. Malice.
"I've reconsidered," he said.
Her blood turned to ice. "What?"
"We aren't divorcing," he said smoothly. "We're going to the Hamptons this weekend. It's my mother's birthday. Pack a bag."
"But... the contract," she stammered.
"Contracts can be renegotiated," he said. He stood up and leaned over the table, bracing his hands on the wood. He looked like a predator toying with a mouse. "And I think you're worth holding onto for a little longer."
