CHAPTER 5

THIRD POV

Sheriff knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the east suite. Rosalie was supposed to be there. She always was. Even when she was angry. Even when she cried. Even when he gave her reasons to hate him. She stayed.

Tonight, the room was empty. Sheriff pushed the door wider. The bed had been stripped. The closet was bare. He stepped inside slowly. There were no suitcases. No clothes. No photographs. No trace of the woman who had lived there for three years.

His eyes moved across the room. Everything he had given Rosalie was still there. The jewelry box. The designer bags. The expensive watch he had bought her after their second anniversary. Even the painting she had once told him she loved. She had taken none of it. Only her own things were gone.

Sheriff's jaw tightened. "She left?"

His security chief, standing behind him, nodded. "Apparently."

"Apparently?"

"She signed the discharge papers herself."

Sheriff turned. "She was discharged?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Last night."

His expression hardened. "And no one thought to tell me?"

The man lowered his eyes. "You ordered the hospital to keep the matter private."

Sheriff said nothing. He turned back toward the empty room. He had expected tears. A confrontation. A demand for more money. Something. Instead, Rosalie had simply disappeared. That unsettled him more than anger would have.

He walked toward the dressing room. The trash bin beside the vanity caught his attention. It had been moved. Sheriff crouched. Something black was sitting beneath a layer of discarded tissue. A velvet box. He pulled it out.

For several seconds, he simply stared at it. Then he opened it. His breath stopped. A silver lotus pendant lay inside. Not a bracelet. A pendant. Small. Hand-finished. The petals were slightly uneven. Sheriff picked it up. His fingers went cold. He turned it over. There it was. The number. His number. The serial number engraved into the family heirloom his mother had given him when he was twelve. The same heirloom he had carried during the kidnapping. The same piece of silver he had pressed into the hands of the terrified girl who had stayed beside him in the darkness. The girl who had promised not to leave him. The girl he had spent years trying to find.

Sheriff stared at the pendant. "No." His voice was barely audible.

He remembered Marie's wrist. The silver lotus she wore. The reason he had believed her. The reason he had protected her. The reason he had destroyed his own marriage.

His hand closed around the pendant. "Sir."

Sheriff looked up. His chief of security stood in the doorway holding a sealed envelope. "This came from St. Jude."

Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"The original medical records."

His expression changed. "Original?"

"The nurse who handled them tried to destroy the files."

Silence. Sheriff stood. "Bring them."

The security chief handed him the envelope. Sheriff tore it open. The first page made his stomach tighten. Pregnancy confirmed. Twin gestation. He read the next line. Paternity match. He stopped breathing. Father: Sheriff Vance.

His eyes moved lower. Fetal condition prior to trauma: healthy.

He read the report again. Then again. His grip tightened until the paper crumpled. The stairwell came back to him. Rosalie lying on the floor. Blood everywhere. Her hands pressed against her stomach. Her voice barely strong enough to reach him. The baby... it's yours.

He had stepped over her. He had picked up Marie. He had left Rosalie bleeding on the floor.

Sheriff looked down at the report. "Where is she?"

"We're trying to locate her."

"Find her."

"We already checked her usual addresses."

"And?"

"Nothing."

Sheriff's eyes hardened. "Check every property."

"We did."

"Banks?"

"Yes."

"Credit cards?"

"Canceled."

His fingers tightened around the pendant. "She left nothing?"

"Nothing that points to where she went."

Sheriff looked toward the empty bedroom. For three years, he had known exactly where Rosalie was. Now, for the first time, he didn't.

He walked out of the room. Halfway down the staircase, his phone rang. "Sir."

"What?"

"You need to see this."

Sheriff stopped. "What?"

"It's Rosalie."

He turned sharply. "Where?"

"Vanguard Atelier."

His expression went still. "What is she doing there?"

The security chief hesitated. "She didn't go there as a visitor."

A pause. "She walked into the firm this morning and took over the coastal development project."

Sheriff said nothing. "She is now listed as lead partner."

His eyes narrowed. Three years ago, Rosalie had walked away from that project. She had walked away from her career. She had walked away from the life she wanted because his marriage contract had demanded her loyalty. Now she had returned. Without asking him. Without warning him. Without needing him.

Sheriff walked toward the front doors. "Get the car."

"Yes, sir."

The doors opened. Before he reached the vehicle, the business news channel playing from the driver's dashboard caught his attention. "Breaking news from Vanguard Atelier this afternoon—"

Sheriff stopped. The screen showed a live press conference. Rosalie stood behind a podium. His entire body went still.

She looked different. Not physically. Something else. She wasn't crying. She wasn't trying to prove anything. She simply stood there with her shoulders straight and her eyes steady.

A reporter asked, "Ms. Monroe, after three years away from the architectural industry, why return now?"

Rosalie looked directly into the cameras. "Because I remembered who I was before I became someone's wife."

Sheriff's jaw tightened. Another reporter shouted. "Is it true your marriage to Sheriff Vance has ended?"

Rosalie didn't flinch. "Yes."

"Was the divorce related to the recent incident at St. Jude?"

A pause. Then she answered. "No comment."

The reporter tried again. "Are you planning to expose what happened?"

Rosalie's expression remained calm. "I have no interest in exposing anyone."

Sheriff exhaled slowly. For some reason, that answer frightened him more than an accusation would have. Rosalie wasn't threatening him. She was moving on.

The broadcast suddenly switched to a different angle. A man stepped beside Rosalie. Sheriff recognized him immediately. Elias Crowe. The architect whose name had appeared on the forged paternity report.

Elias leaned toward Rosalie and whispered something. She looked at him. Then she smiled. Not the careful smile she had worn around Sheriff. A real one.

Sheriff's hand tightened around the silver lotus pendant. His phone rang. He answered without taking his eyes from the screen. "Sir," his security chief said urgently, "there's something else."

"What?"

"We checked the hospital surveillance."

Sheriff's expression darkened. "And?"

"The fall wasn't an accident."

He went completely still. "What did you find?"

"We found Marie entering the stairwell before Rosalie."

Sheriff's eyes sharpened. "And after?"

"She came out alone."

His grip tightened. "That's not possible."

"There is more."

"What?"

"We found someone else on the recording."

Sheriff stared at the screen. "Who?"

The security chief's voice dropped. "A man."

Sheriff's blood ran cold. "What man?"

"We don't know yet."

A pause. "But he was waiting in the stairwell before Marie arrived."

Sheriff slowly lowered the phone. On the screen, Rosalie was still standing beside Elias. The silver lotus pendant rested inside his fist.

For the first time, Sheriff understood something terrifying. He hadn't simply lost his wife. Someone had been manipulating them both. And whoever had been waiting in that stairwell had known exactly what was going to happen.

Sheriff looked toward the city. "Find him."

His security chief was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Sir... we're already too late."

Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"The man left the city an hour ago."

And then another message appeared on Sheriff's phone. One photograph. Rosalie leaving Vanguard Atelier. And behind her, half-hidden across the street, stood the same unknown man from the hospital.

Sheriff stared at the image. Then his phone buzzed again. This time, there was a message beneath the photograph.

You should have believed her the first time.