Chapter 3: A Costly Mistake

"Watch the IV line near the doorway, please! Do not let the oxygen tank scrape against the wall!"

Chloe’s loud voice echoed through the penthouse as two private nurses carried a heavy metal box past the table near the entrance. Suitcases, bags of clothes, and medical machines were piled beside the shoe rack until the whole hallway looked like a hospital storage room.

Tristan loosened his tie and stood by the kitchen counter, still holding his briefcase. He watched as one of the nurses pushed a tall oxygen machine down the corridor toward the master bedroom.

"Tristan, honey, come here," Chloe called, her voice rough as she leaned against the arm of the living room sofa. She was wearing cream silk pajamas, and her pale face was covered with thick powder to hide the grey color of her skin. "Tell this nurse that the pillows in this house are too soft. I need firm orthopedic pillows to support my neck, or I won't be able to sleep tonight."

"I'll ask the housekeeper to order whatever you need, Chloe," Tristan replied, forcing a small smile as he walked toward her. He kept his hands in his trouser pockets, feeling a strange heaviness in his chest as he looked down at her.

"You shouldn't have to worry about things like that," Chloe said softly, reaching out with her thin fingers to hold his wrist. Her skin felt cool and dry against his pulse. She slowly ran her thumb over his watch strap, as if she had all the time in the world. "You have a huge company to run. Just focus on spending time with me. That's all I wanted when I came back from London."

Tristan's jaw tightened. He looked down at her hand on his wrist, waiting to feel the warmth he used to feel whenever she touched him years ago, before she left. But instead, a strange cold feeling spread up his forearm. His muscles tensed, and before he could stop himself, he pulled his arm away and pretended to check his watch.

"I have a meeting with the board," Tristan said, avoiding her eyes. "The master suite is all set up for your machines. Get some rest."

Chloe’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her smile stayed fixed. "You're leaving already?"

"I have to check the logistics reports," he said, turning sharply toward the hallway. 

---

The next morning, sunlight fell across the kitchen counter at exactly seven o'clock, but the usual smell of freshly brewed dark roast coffee and toasted sourdough was nowhere to be found.

Tristan walked into the kitchen wearing a freshly pressed charcoal suit, with his tablet in one hand. He sat down at the marble bar and waited for his breakfast. A moment later, a young kitchen maid hurried out of the pantry and placed a white porcelain bowl in front of him.

Tristan looked down. "What is this?"

"Oatmeal, sir," the young girl said, wringing her apron strings in her hands. "With sliced bananas."

"I don't eat oatmeal on Tuesday mornings," Tristan said, his voice dropping hard. "Where is the smoked salmon and the black coffee?"

"Mrs. Sinclair…I mean, the staff didn't leave a written menu," the maid stammered, her face turning bright red as she backed away toward the sink. "The cook made what Miss Chloe requested for her stomach."

Tristan dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a loud clatter. "Get me black coffee. Now."

He tapped his tablet screen to check his morning schedule, his eyebrows drawing together into a hard line. His private calendar was completely blank after nine o’clock. No investor call with the Zurich branch. No reminder about his mother’s charity luncheon. No confirmation for the dinner meeting with the city zoning commissioner.

He punched the intercom button on the wall. "Martha! Get in the kitchen right now."

Martha, the head housekeeper who had worked in the penthouse for six years, hurried through the swing doors holding a stack of fresh linen towels.

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair?" Martha asked, her voice tight and guarded.

"Where is my schedule for today?" Tristan demanded, shoving the tablet across the marble counter. "Why is my Zurich meeting missing? And who cancelled the dinner with the zoning commissioner?"

Martha set the towels down on the counter, her hands folding neatly over her apron. "I wouldn't know about that, sir. Mrs. Sinclair always handled the private calendar herself."

Tristan stared at her. "Mrs. Sinclair is gone. I asked you who cleared my appointments."

"Nobody cleared them, Mr. Sinclair," Martha said, her tone unnaturally calm. "They were never put on the system because Mrs. Sinclair hadn't called the commissioner’s office to confirm them yet. She usually made those calls every Monday evening while you were reviewing quarterly statements."

Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sharp headache pulsing behind his eyes. "Can't you make the call?"

"I don't have the commissioner's direct private line, sir," Martha replied smoothly. "Only Mrs. Sinclair did."

"Well, find it!" Tristan snapped, standing up so fast his leather chair scraped loudly against the tile floor. "And fix my coffee! I need the financial guarantees report from the filing cabinet in the study by eight o'clock!"

Martha didn't move. She stood her ground, her gray eyes staring right into his. "The filing cabinet in the study is locked, Mr. Sinclair."

"Locked?" Tristan’s voice rose an octave. "It has never been locked!"

"Mrs. Sinclair locked it before she left last night," Martha said, her voice dropping to a quiet whisper. "She took all her personal files, her ledger books, and her security keys with her."

Tristan stared at the housekeeper, his chest rising and falling heavily. "She was just my wife, Martha. She wasn't the chief operations officer. Anyone on the staff could have answered a phone or booked a dinner."

Martha let out a short, dry sound that wasn't quite a chuckle, though her lips twitched with a cold, humorless edge. She picked up her stack of towels and turned toward the door.

"If anyone could have done it, sir, I suppose you won't need us at all," Martha said over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.

---

That evening, the penthouse was filled with the smell of boiling soup and antiseptic wipes.

Tristan sat at the glass dining table, looking at a pile of unread emails on his laptop while Chloe slowly picked at a plate of plain boiled chicken across from him. The oxygen machine in the corner made a soft hissing sound, like someone breathing through a machine. The sound filled the quiet room.

Chloe put down her fork with a small clink. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the table, and tilted her head.

"You've barely touched your steak, Tristan," she said softly, her voice carrying that breathy, fragile sweetness she used whenever she wanted something. "Is something wrong at the office?"

"The merger is stalling," Tristan said without looking up from his screen. "The board is asking questions about the private financial guarantees that usually back our logistics division. I can't find the original paper trail."

Chloe smiled, leaning back against her chair. "Oh, don't worry about business tonight. You have me. We finally have the life we were supposed to share before your family forced you into that marriage."

Tristan didn't answer. He reached for his glass of water. But he wasn't thinking about Chloe sitting across from him in her silk pajamas. Instead, he remembered three nights ago, when Evelyn had stood quietly by the kitchen counter, holding a warm mug of tea and waiting for him. He could still remember the calm look in her blue eyes as she looked at him.

"Tristan?" Chloe asked, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

"What?" he snapped, his head snapping up.

Chloe blinked, a flicker of hurt crossing her pale face. "I asked... Do you think Evelyn is going to try to contact you?"

Tristan let out a harsh, dry laugh, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, his face settling into a mask of absolute confidence.

"Contact me?" Tristan shook his head, a smug edge to his voice. "With what money? Evelyn hasn't worked a single day since we got married. She doesn't have a savings account of her own. She doesn't have a car without my name on the insurance."

He tapped his finger against the edge of the glass table.

"She went to throw a tantrum at some hotel downtown to scare me. Give her forty-eight hours once her credit cards hit the limit. She’ll crawl back to the lobby begging to come inside because she has absolutely nowhere else to go."

Chloe smiled, reaching across the table to pat his hand. "See? I told you. She was never right for you anyway. You belong with someone who understands your world."

Tristan pulled his hand away smoothly under the pretense of grabbing his napkin, though he didn't meet her eyes.

Outside the dining room entrance, hidden in the shadows of the hallway archway, Martha the housekeeper stood holding a tray of empty medicine cups. She heard every single word Tristan said.

Martha rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, letting out a slow, quiet breath of pure disgust. She muttered under her breath to the young kitchen maid standing beside her in the dark.

"He really doesn't know who he married," Martha whispered.