Chapter Five: A Ghost in the Passenger Seat

Finn’s POV

She was gone.

A little part of me still stubbornly believed that it was a cheap bluff she would pull out of at the last second to get my attention, but she actually went ahead and did it.

I had just gone down to the estate's lower lounge to get away from the mistress's constant complaining about the storm, but when I returned to the guest wing, every single trace of Sloane's belongings had vanished.

My chest was burning from the inside. I was struggling to breathe.

I reached for my phone inside my pocket and began to dial her number like an absolute maniac off the rails.

Each and every call went straight to voicemail.

She didn't even think of giving me one single response.

The more the mechanical voicemail voice repeated in my ear, the more it felt like the grand hardwood floor beneath my feet was beginning to spin. How could this be happening?

Could it be... that there was another man?

That would perfectly explain her erratic change in behavior and that sudden, chilling look in her eyes.

She’d found someone else.

Of course. Though I was completely certain she didn't love that rebound partner half as much as she loved me.

She must just be using him to buy time, play hard to get, and make me lose my mind with jealousy.

A little sense of reasoning in the dark corner of my head was asking me: if she was really trying to make you jealous, why didn't she bring up his name to your face?

But I refused to listen to that voice.

Sloane still loved me. That was all she knew how to do.

Maybe she was just distracted by her anger for now, but she would always come running back to lick the crumbs of affection that fell from my table.

She would—

"Finn! Finn, babe!" I was abruptly broken out of my stream of chaotic thoughts by my mistress relentlessly pulling at the fabric of my tailored trousers.

I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to clear the sudden fog in my head.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, instantly startling her.

I hoped it was something I could handle in two minutes because I was absolutely not in the mood for her antics.

"Where are the access keys to the master suite?" she asked with a pretty pout, sniffing slightly.

"The housekeeper said your father locked the top floor for private use. Did Sloane take them just to be petty?"

"Of course not," I snapped, running a hand through my hair. "Sloane knows her place. She's just... throwing a temporary fit.

When she calms down, she'll come back and hand over whatever I need.

Just drop it."

Her face visibly brightened for a second before she held up a thick, leather-bound folder she had pulled from my briefcase, shoved it toward my chest, and announced, "The presentation metrics for tomorrow's board audit."

Instinctively, I turned my head around to call out Sloane’s name. Her name was already at the tip of my tongue, my lips shaping the syllables before I froze, realizing the crushing mistake.

She wasn't there.

Usually, she was the one who prepared the executive summaries, memorized the financial sheets, and formatted the slides so I wouldn't have to stress.

Okay, if I was being completely honest and frank with myself, in my past ten years of climbing the corporate ladder at Hartley Global, I had never actually sat down to do the grinding data analysis myself.

But whatever. If a mere assistant like Sloane could manage it, then it couldn't possibly be that hard for an heir.

I escorted my date back to the lounge sofa, sitting down before the massive glass table. It took less than five minutes of staring at the multi-layered spreadsheets to be violently reminded that Sloane was actually an honors economics major—one of the absolute best in her university tier before I convinced her to give up her independent career path to manage my life.

As for me, I had surfed through my Ivy League hurdles using my family’s massive endowments and connections.

The exact same strategy applied to most of my problems today.

Except no family connection was going to bail me out of an audit conducted personally by Knox Hartley.

"Finn, that's not what the revenue graph means at all!" the mistress suddenly chirped, pointing a manicured nail at the screen, trying to look smart.

"I think you missed a whole column of numbers."

As if it wasn't already humiliating enough that I was completely confused by my own corporate data, she was sitting there making unhelpful corrections.

"That's enough!" I ended up shouting at her, my temper flaring violently.

She went dead quiet for a second, gauging the fury in my hazel eyes before bursting into loud, dramatic tears.

I let out a harsh sigh. I couldn't deal with this chaotic tantrum right now—at least not alone.

The butler, Mr. Whipple, had mentioned an hour ago that a few executives from the local branch were hosting a private VIP mixer at a high-end club down the road.

I stood up, muttering for her to stay put before I grabbed my keys and stepped out into the rain.

I needed a drink, and I needed to clear my head.

I drove down to the exclusive venue at the speed of light, the tires of my sports car screeching against the wet asphalt.

When I arrived, the thumping bass of the club music blasted through the doors, instantly making my head throb.

I walked into the VIP section, and within minutes, I saw my date—who had secretly followed me in an executive Uber—already dancing near the lounge area, a crowd of wealthy young heirs trying to grind up against her.

My blood boiled. I stepped directly between them, staring the silver-spoon losers down until they backed away, before spinning around to grab her arm.

The heavy scent of premium champagne oozed off her skin, and my heart sank into a hollow pit.

"You're not supposed to be out here making a scene!" I yelled over the music.

"It was just a few glasses, Finn, don't be so boring!" she giggled, staggering against my chest as I dragged her out toward the exit.

As we headed back toward the parking lot under the pouring rain, a sudden, intrusive thought slammed into my mind.

Sloane would have never left the estate to go clubbing in the middle of a critical audit week. She would have been in the study, quietly typing, ensuring my success was absolute.

But I angrily pushed the thoughts of that ungrateful woman out of my mind.

We reached the car. I was trying to gently guide the mistress into the passenger seat when she suddenly swayed her body heavily against mine, wrapping her arms around my neck, her lips parting eagerly.

It was crazy. It was completely unhinged.

But as the rain blurred my vision, instead of seeing the shallow woman in front of me, my mind twisted the imagery.

I pictured Sloane. I pictured the sharp, confident curve of her scarlet lips from earlier tonight, the smooth skin she was no longer hiding in my shadow.

Pushing away every shred of sanity, I pressed her hard against the side of the car, slamming my lips into hers with a raw, desperate hunger.

Except in my head, I imagined with absolute certainty that I was kissing my wife-to-be. I held her neck tightly, pulling her body flush against mine to deepen the kiss, trying to find the comfort I had so carelessly thrown away.

By the time I pulled away, breathless and soaked to the bone, reality struck like a bolt of lightning.

The painful realization hit me square in the chest—I wasn't kissing Sloane.

For the very first time, looking at the empty, shallow smile of the mistress under the headlights, a cold dread settled deep into my stomach.

What the hell am I going to do if Sloane really doesn't come back?