{ FIVE }

Vaylen 

I called her again. Still switched off.

I lowered the phone from my ear slowly while across the table, my lawyer kept talking, sliding another document toward me like this meeting was still happening normally. I hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the last minutes, because my attention went back to the clock on the wall.

Ten minutes late. Catherine was never late.

I called again, but the automated voice cut in almost immediately, repeating that the number you are trying to reach is switched off.

Marshall finally stopped talking. “Mr. Morgan?”

I tapped my finger once against the table, then pushed my chair back and stood.

“I’ll go get her.”

I grabbed my keys off the table and walked out before he could say anything. The drive to the penthouse felt longer than usual. Traffic lights blurred past the windshield while my hands tightened around the steering wheel hard enough that the leather started digging into my palms, though I barely noticed.

I tried to convince myself there were reasonable explanations, but I found none as to why Catherine chose to make this hard. By the time I pulled into the garage, I wasn’t calling this irritation anymore.

---

The elevator opened into silence, and the quiet hit immediately as I stepped into the penthouse.

“Catherine?” My voice carried through the living room and disappeared.

No response came back. I loosened my tie as I walked farther inside. There was no movement upstairs, nothing from the kitchen, and no sound at all except my own footsteps against the marble.

I checked every room automatically, but there was nothing. Everything was still in place, clean, organized, and untouched.

I dropped my keys onto the console table, and the sound echoed harder than it normally did.

“Catherine.” I called again, lower this time.

Her bedroom door was open, so I stopped in the doorway for a second before reaching for the light switch. Warm light filled the room, and then everything inside me went completely still.

The birthday dress was folded neatly in the center of the bed with the pearl earrings beside it, the necklace, and the shoes lined up carefully near the foot of the bed. I stood there staring at it longer than I should have, and then my eyes moved again and stopped.

Her wedding ring sat beside the jewelry, catching the light against the pale sheets. I looked at it for a long time before I turned toward the wardrobe. The door opened easily, revealing it was almost empty. Six hangers, maybe seven, and I counted twice without meaning to.

Everything else was gone, leaving me standing there doing the math on that before I could stop myself.

The bathroom felt worse somehow because the shelves were empty, and when I opened the cabinet, it was empty too. I wasn’t even sure what I was checking for anymore.

I stayed there a few seconds, then walked back into the bedroom because there was nothing left in the bathroom that needed me standing in it. I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight while my eyes drifted to the nightstand.

A faint circle marked the dust on the surface, where something had sat there long enough to leave an outline behind. I stared at it, trying to remember when Catherine had started sleeping in this room instead of mine, but I couldn’t.

Three years, and I hadn’t even noticed when my wife moved out of our bedroom.

Something on the dining table caught my attention as I walked through the living room. The papers.

I crossed the room immediately and picked them up, flipping through the pages until I reached the settlement section, and then I stopped.

"Declined," written in her handwriting.

Her signature sat neatly beneath it, precise and controlled. I stood there staring at the page, and then her voice came back to me without warning: Hold my hand when we walk in. You gave me one night. This is part of it. After tonight, I’ll disappear from your life.

I hadn’t believed her. Then the rest of the night came back in pieces, and I remembered leaving the hotel, getting into the car, and driving away without once asking how Catherine was getting home.

I lowered the papers slowly back onto the table, seeing that she’d crossed through all of the things my lawyers decided was appropriate compensation for her.

---

I went to my study and opened the bottom drawer of my desk. The folder was exactly where I’d left it, untouched since my father handed it to me after the wedding. I barely remembered the conversation attached to it because at the time, I hadn’t cared enough to listen properly.

I carried the folder back to the desk and opened it again, skimming marriage records and legal agreements I’d ignored three years ago without paying much attention to what they actually said. I turned the pages more slowly this time, and then something slipped loose and fell onto the desk, revealing a folded sheet of paper in my father’s handwriting.

I picked it up and unfolded it carefully.

(She risked her life to save yours.)

I went still and read it again: 

(And she stayed afterward without asking for anything in return. You’re lucky to have her.)

Something tight started building slowly in my chest as I kept reading: 

(She really loves you. I hope you’re worthy of her someday.)

I read the line three times, but the words didn’t change. I folded the paper, opened it again, and then I stopped because doing it again wasn’t going to help anything, and I knew that.

I hope you’re worthy of her someday…

I folded the note carefully along the original crease and slid it into the other documents before picking up my keys and heading outside.

The security guard straightened as soon as he saw me.

“Mr. Morgan.”

I stopped in front of his desk. “When did you last see Mrs. Morgan?”

He hesitated briefly. “Four days ago, sir.”

Four days. I looked at him without speaking, and he shifted slightly in his chair, like he wasn't certain. “Since then,” he added carefully, “I haven’t seen her.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket, so I pulled it out without taking my eyes off him. 

Melissa.

I watched her name flash across the screen once, then twice, before I declined the call and dialed Reno instead. He answered immediately.

“Find out where Mrs. Morgan went.”

Silence for half a second. Then, carefully, 

“Sir, I don’t think…”

“Before evening, Reno.” 

Another pause followed.

“…Okay, sir.”

I ended the call and sat back in the driver’s seat without starting the engine. The parking garage was quiet, but for the first time in years, the silence around me felt loud. My phone rang again. Reno.

I answered immediately, met first by a short pause.

“I found something sir,” he said slowly, and my grip tightened around the phone. “Mrs. Morgan boarded a flight four days ago, but we couldn't trace where she went, sir.”

I leaned back against the seat and stared through the windshield for a second without really seeing anything. Four days.

She told me exactly what she planned to do, and I had looked at her and decided she didn’t mean it. I was wrong about that, and lately, I was starting to realize I’d been wrong about a lot of things.