A week later, the scandal had been scrubbed from the headlines. The Conway family's PR machine had worked with brutal efficiency, burying the story under a landslide of carefully placed puff pieces and a well-timed charitable donation. The news cycle had moved on, hungry for its next meal. The world, it seemed, had forgotten about the dead male escort and Jaime Conway's night in Chelsea.
But Callie had not forgotten.
The Maybach moved through the glittering canyons of Manhattan like a ghost ship. Inside, the silence was a physical weight, pressing down on Callie, making it hard to breathe. The air, conditioned to a perfect seventy-two degrees, felt frigid.
She turned to look at Jaime. He was staring out his window, the city lights sliding across the sharp, handsome planes of his face. His profile was perfect, like something carved from marble. There were no cracks. No sign of the chaos they had just left behind. He looked tired, yes, but it was the weariness of a long day at the office, not of a man who had just been questioned about a death.
She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him again what had happened, but the words died in her throat. The coldness radiating from him was a wall she couldn't seem to breach. She had held his hand in front of the cameras, a perfect portrait of a supportive wife, but the man beside her now felt like a stranger.
The car descended into the private underground garage of their Park Avenue apartment building. The silence here was even deeper. Jaime got out the moment the car stopped, not waiting for her. He walked toward the private elevator without a backward glance.
Callie hurried to catch up, her heels clicking on the smooth concrete. She felt a frantic need to keep up, as if letting him get too far ahead would mean he'd disappear completely. They rode the elevator to the penthouse in the same suffocating silence.
He pushed open the heavy front door of their apartment and tossed his suit jacket onto a cream-colored armchair. It was a careless gesture, so unlike the meticulously neat man she knew. He went straight to the built-in bar, his back to her.
Callie stood frozen in the grand entryway, watching him. The apartment, usually a sanctuary of calm and order, felt vast and menacing tonight.
He poured a generous amount of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and drank half of it in one long swallow. The sound of him gulping the liquor was jarringly loud.
Finally, he turned to face her. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.
"The PR team is already drafting a statement," he said, his voice flat. "They'll handle it. It will all blow over in a day or two."
"Jaime, what happened?" she pleaded, taking a step toward him. "Who was that man? Why were you there?"
"I told you, it was nothing," he snapped, his patience suddenly gone. His eyes, which had been so full of warmth and reassurance just an hour ago, were now cold and hard as stone. "I don't want to talk about it. Just go to bed, Callie. Don't overthink it."
The dismissal was so sharp, so absolute, it felt like a slap. She flinched. The questions burned on her tongue, but the look in his eyes dared her to ask them.
She gave a small, defeated nod. "Okay."
She turned and walked down the long, silent hallway to the master bedroom. The loneliness was a physical ache in her chest. This was their home, but tonight it felt like a beautiful, empty museum.
She showered, the hot water doing nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in her bones. She changed into a silk nightgown and slid into her side of the enormous king-sized bed. The sheets were cool and crisp. She stared at the ceiling, listening for the sound of Jaime coming to bed.
She waited.
And waited.
Hours passed. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed: 1:47 AM. The space beside her remained empty and cold. Sleep was impossible. Her mind was a carousel of flashing cameras, reporters' shouts, and the dead, flat voice of the police officer. Male escort.
At a few minutes past two, she heard it. The soft, distant click of a door closing. Not the bedroom door. Maybe the front door? Had he left?
She threw back the duvet. The plush wool carpet was soft under her bare feet. Her throat was dry. She needed water.
She padded out of the bedroom and down the hallway. As she passed Jaime's study, she saw a thin line of yellow light spilling from under the door. It was closed, but not latched.
He was still up. A wave of concern, an old and familiar habit, washed over her. He worked too hard. He was probably stressing about the media, about the company's stock price.
She slowed her steps, intending to gently knock, to tell him to come to bed. But then she heard a sound.
A strange, breathy moan.
She stopped dead, her hand hovering in the air. Her heart, which had been beating a slow, anxious rhythm, suddenly began to pound. A drumbeat of pure dread.
He must be sick. Maybe he was in pain. The sounds were strained, guttural.
She crept closer, her bare feet making no sound on the runner. She leaned in, pressing her ear to the small gap where the door wasn't fully closed.
The sounds became clearer. A man's heavy breathing, punctuated by soft, desperate gasps. But it wasn't just one man. There was another voice, a lower murmur she didn't recognize.
And then she heard Jaime.
His voice was a low, guttural growl, thick with a kind of raw, unrestrained desire she had never, ever heard from him in the two years they had been married. It was the voice of a man completely undone by pleasure.
"Leo," he groaned. "God, yes."
The name hit her like a physical blow. Leo. That was the name the reporters had been shouting.
Her blood ran cold. It felt like all the warmth in her body was being sucked out, leaving a hollow, frozen shell. Her mind simply refused to process it. It was a scene from a movie, a story about someone else. Not her. Not her life. Not her perfect, gentle husband.
She took a step back, her body moving on its own, trying to escape. Her foot bumped into a tall, ceramic vase that stood in the corner of the hallway.
It wobbled, making a soft thump against the wall.
Inside the study, the moaning stopped. Instantly.
Silence.
A strangled gasp escaped Callie's lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. She had to get away. She turned, ready to run, to flee back to the bedroom and pretend none of this had ever happened.
But it was too late.
The study door was yanked open.
A harsh blade of light sliced across the dark hallway, pinning her in its glare. Jaime stood there, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his tie gone. His hair was a mess, and his eyes, dark and dilated, still held the fading heat of passion.
Over his shoulder, she saw him. The other man. A young, handsome man with dark, curly hair, frantically pulling on a shirt. He was sitting on the edge of Jaime's prized leather sofa.
Callie's gaze locked on the young man's face. The face from the news. The dead man's... associate? Friend? And now he was here. In her home. With her husband.
The trust she had so desperately clung to, the image of the man she loved-it all shattered. It wasn't just a crack; it was a demolition. The floor gave way beneath her, and she was falling.
Jaime's expression shifted in a horrifying instant. The shock of seeing her there was wiped away, replaced by a glacial, terrifying coldness. There was no shame. No guilt. Only annoyance.
A wave of nausea rose in her throat, hot and acidic. Her stomach revolted.
She clamped her hand over her mouth again, a guttural sound of pure disgust tearing from her chest. She turned and ran. Not to the bedroom. To the front door. Away.
She didn't look back. She didn't have to. She could feel his cold, indifferent eyes on her back as she fled her own home.
She fumbled with the lock on the front door, her hands shaking uncontrollably. It finally gave way. She wrenched it open and stumbled out into the hallway, jabbing the button for the elevator.
The doors slid open. She collapsed inside, her back sliding down the cool, mirrored wall until she was huddled on the floor.
As the elevator began its silent descent, the tears finally came. Hot, silent, and utterly devastating. They blurred the glittering lights of the city outside the glass wall, turning them into a meaningless, watery smear.
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