Five

Emma woke before dawn.

The guest room was cold, the sheets unfamiliar against her skin. She had barely slept, her mind racing through the night, replaying every cruel word Jessica had thrown at her. Every cold glance from Noah. Every moment of her erasure.

She rose quietly, padding barefoot through the silent penthouse. The kitchen was empty, the city lights still glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. She moved on autopilot, her hands finding the kettle, the tea canister, the mug Noah had used every morning for the past three years.

She paused, her fingers hovering over the canister.

Jessica had said he preferred Earl grey. That was a lie. Noah had loved chamomile for years—it was the only tea he ever drank. But after he met Emma, everything changed. She had introduced him to chamomile on their first date, the smoky bergamot flavor reminding her of her grandmother's kitchen. He had fallen in love with it instantly.

It tastes like you, he had said, smiling at her across the café table. Warm and complicated and impossible to forget.

Now chamomile was his favorite. Had been for years. But Jessica didn't know that.

Emma measured the tea leaves carefully, poured the boiling water, added a splash of milk—just the way he liked it. The familiar scent filled the kitchen, and for a moment, she could almost pretend everything was normal. Almost pretend she was still his wife, still loved, still remembered.

She heard footsteps behind her and didn't need to turn around.

Jessica swept into the kitchen, still wearing her silk robe, her hair perfectly tousled. She looked like she belonged in a magazine spread. Emma, by contrast, looked like she hadn't slept in days.

"Still here, I see." Jessica leaned against the counter, her smile sharp as glass. "You must enjoy pain."

Emma ignored her, focusing on the tea. She would not give Jessica the satisfaction of a reaction.

Jessica stepped closer, reaching into her robe pocket. She pulled out Emma's wedding ring, holding it between her fingers, letting it catch the morning light. "I've decided not to tell him," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Not yet. Watching you suffer is far more entertaining."

Emma's jaw tightened, but she remained silent.

"You need to understand something." Jessica's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "He's mine now. Everything he does, every smile, every touch, every kiss—it belongs to me. You're just a shadow. A ghost he'll never remember."

"He might remember," Emma whispered, her voice barely audible. "The doctors said it's possible."

Jessica laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. "Possible? Not likely. And even if he does..." She paused, savoring the moment. "Do you think he'll choose you? After everything I've told him? After I've made you look like the enemy?"

Emma said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

Jessica pocketed the ring again. "One more thing. I've had your things moved again. Everything that reminds him of you—photos, gifts, anything with your name on it—it's gone. Burned. Destroyed. You don't exist in his world anymore. Try to remember that."

She walked out just as Noah entered the kitchen.

Emma's breath caught. Noah was dressed in a tailored shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, the bandage on his forehead the only reminder of the accident. He moved slowly, carefully, but his eyes were sharp. Alert.

He walked straight to the counter, his gaze falling on the steaming cup.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice neutral.

Emma swallowed. "Tea. chamomile. With milk."

Noah picked up the cup. His fingers were warm as they brushed against hers, and Emma felt the familiar jolt of electricity that had never faded. Not in three years. Not even now.

He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. His brow furrowed slightly. He took another sip. And another.

"This is right," he said slowly, almost to himself. "Jessica made me earl grey yesterday. It tasted... wrong. But this is right."

His eyes met hers. There was something there—curiosity. Recognition just out of reach.

"How did you know?" he asked quietly.

"I guessed," she lied, her voice trembling.

Noah studied her for a long moment. His gaze was searching, probing, trying to find something in her face that made sense. Then he took another sip, and his shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.

"This is my favorite," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I don't know how I know, but this is really my favorite."

He looked at the cup, then back at her. Something flickered in his eyes—a shadow of warmth, quickly suppressed.

"Thank you," he said. The words came out stiff, awkward, like he wasn't used to saying them.

Then he walked away, still holding the cup. At the doorway, he paused.

"Emma."

She looked up.

"Don't leave the penthouse today. I have a headache. I might need you."

It wasn't a request. It was an order. Cold and commanding.

But he had thanked her. He had recognized the tea. He had said this is my favorite.

Emma watched him go, her heart breaking and healing at the same time.

The penthouse was silent.

Jessica had gone out for the evening. Dinner with friends, she'd announced with a triumphant smirk. Noah was in his room, resting, the headache he'd mentioned lingering throughout the day. The house staff had been dismissed early.

Emma wandered through the empty rooms, her fingers trailing across surfaces she knew by heart. The kitchen counter where she'd baked him birthday cakes. The couch where they'd curled up on rainy Sundays. The hallway where he'd surprised her with a spontaneous dance, pulling her into his arms and spinning her until she was breathless with laughter.

Every corner held a memory. Every memory was a knife.

She found herself in the living room, drawn by some invisible force. The grand piano stood in the corner, its polished surface gleaming in the dim light. Noah had bought it for her after they married—a gift he'd saved for months to afford.

You bring music into my life, he had said, his eyes shining. It's time you had an instrument worthy of you.

Emma sat down on the bench. Her fingers hovered over the keys, trembling.

She hadn't played in weeks. Not since before the accident. But the music was still there, buried deep inside her, waiting to be released.

Her fingers found the opening chords without thinking. The melody poured out, soft and melancholic, filling the silent room. It was their song—the one that had played at their wedding, the one Noah had hummed to her on lazy Sunday mornings, the one that had become the soundtrack of their life together.

She closed her eyes and let herself feel it. The joy. The pain. The love. The loss.

She didn't hear the footsteps.

She didn't know he was there until she opened her eyes and saw him standing in the doorway.

Noah was pale, his face drawn with exhaustion and confusion. His eyes were fixed on her hands, watching the way they moved across the keys. He took a step closer. Then another.

"Where did you learn that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Emma stopped playing, her hands freezing mid-air.