Chapter 5: The Brother

Jason's POV.

I stared at my phone in the Singapore hotel room, Aria's contact photo filling the screen. The picture was from our honeymoon, smiling on a beach in Santorini, looking at me like I was something worth capturing.

I should call her. I knew I should. My thumb hovered over her name.

I locked the phone and set it face down on the nightstand.

What would I even say? That the meetings were running long? That I would be back on Friday instead of Thursday? 

She wouldn't ask questions. She never did. That was one of the things that made her easy to live with.

Easy. That was the word I had used when I proposed. My father had been on my case for two years, ever since Isabelle died. 

“You need to move on, Jason. The board is getting nervous. A thirty-two-year-old CEO with no personal life, no stability. Find someone appropriate and get married. Or I'm giving it to Kyle."

Kyle. My younger brother, who disappeared to New York right after my wedding. Who called maybe twice a year. Who looked at me like I had committed some unforgivable sin.

I met Aria three months after that conversation with my dad. She was at a charity gala, wearing a dress that was nice but not designer. 

She laughed at something her friend said, and for a moment the sound reminded me of Isabelle.

But when I got closer, there was nothing of Isabelle there. Aria was pretty in a quiet way. Soft-spoken. She worked in marketing for a mid-level firm. No connections, no agenda, no expectations.

She was safe.

I asked her to dinner and she had said yes. I took her to three more dinners, a play, and a weekend in the Hamptons. 

She never asked for anything. Never pushed. Never demanded I be someone I wasn't.

When I proposed, she cried and said yes immediately. I felt nothing. Just a sense of having checked an item off a list.

My therapist had advised against it.

"Jason, you're not ready for this. Getting married to someone you admit you don't love—"

"I'm not going to love anyone," I had interrupted. "That part of me died with her. At least this way, I'm not lying to anyone. Aria knows what this is."

"Does she?"

I hadn't answered that. Mostly because I hadn't asked. Aria seemed content with what I offered—my name, financial security, a life most people would envy. 

She got the fairy tale on paper. I got my family off my back and my inheritance secure.

Fair trade.

Except lately, she had been different. Asking where I was going, when I would be home, and looking at me with eyes that wanted something I couldn't name.

It irritated me more than it should.

A knock on my hotel door jolted me back from my thoughts. "Mr. Hartley? Your car is here for the dinner meeting."

I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs. The restaurant was elegant, the kind of place where deals worth millions happened over expensive wine.

My colleague's wife was there… Margaret something. She laughed at something the waiter said, and the sound hit me like a fist to the chest.

Isabelle's laugh. Exactly Isabelle's laugh.

I excused myself to the bathroom, gripping the marble sink until my knuckles went white. Five years. It had been five years, and a stranger's laugh could still gut me.

Aria's laugh was nothing like Isabelle's. Aria's laugh was quiet, careful, easily missed. I had probably heard it a dozen times in two years.

I went back to the table. Pushed through the dinner, and signed the contracts. I felt nothing except the echo of a sound that didn't belong to my wife.

Back at the hotel, my phone rang. Kyle's name flashed on the screen.

I almost didn't answer. But Kyle never called unless it was important.

"What's wrong?" I asked instead of hello.

"Nothing's wrong. Can't I just check in on my brother?" His voice was sharp, hostile.

"You haven't checked in since my wedding. Why start now?"

Silence. Then: "I wanted to ask you something. Are you serious about your marriage?"

The question caught me off, guard. "What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one. Are you actually committed to Aria, or is she just a placeholder until the prenup expires?"

"That's none of your business."

"So that's a no." Kyle's laugh was bitter. "I figured. Just wanted to confirm."

"Why do you care? You've been in New York for two years. You've met Aria maybe twice."

"Once," Kyle corrected. "I met her once, at your wedding. Even though she didn’t know I was your brother, that was enough."

"Enough for what?"

"To know you don't deserve her." His voice was cold now. "But that's fine. I just called to let you know I'm back to the city. I've been avoiding family events because of you, but I'm done with that."

"Why would you avoid family events because of me?"

"You really don't know?" Kyle sounded incredulous. "You really don't see her at all, do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Forget it. I'll see you at Thanksgiving. Try not to destroy her completely before then."

He hung up.

I stared at my phone, confused and irritated. Kyle had always been dramatic, emotional in ways I had never understood. It made him weak.

I set my phone down and tried to focus on the contracts. But Kyle's words kept circling back: “You really don't see her at all, do you?”

Of course, I saw Aria. She was there every morning at breakfast, every evening in the apartment. Quiet, unobtrusive, exactly what I had wanted.

What else was I supposed to see?

My phone buzzed. It was a security alert from our building.

I opened the app, expecting a delivery notification.

Instead, I saw footage from the penthouse entrance. Aria was leaving at 9:47 PM, carrying a suitcase.

I rewound the footage. Watched her close the door, her shoulders straight, head high. Something in her posture reminded me of the woman I had met at that gala, before I had spent two years teaching her to make herself small.

I called her phone.

It rang four times, then went to voicemail.

"Aria, it's me. I saw you leave the apartment. Is everything okay? Call me back."

I hung up and waited.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

No response.

I pulled up her location on my phone, the app we had both installed for safety. The dot showed her across town, stationary. I zoomed in.

A storage facility.

What the hell was she doing at a storage facility at ten o'clock at night?

I called again. Voicemail.

Irritation flared into something sharper. Aria didn't do things like this. She didn't leave without telling me. She didn't ignore my calls. She was predictable, manageable, and easy.

Except lately, she hadn't been. Lately, she had been asking questions. 

Looking at me differently. And tonight, she had left with a suitcase and was sitting in a storage facility refusing to answer.

I opened my text messages, started typing: ” Where are you?”

Then I saw it. The last message I had sent her, three hours ago: “Dinner meeting tonight. Don't wait up.”

She had responded: “Okay.”

Just okay. No questions about who or where or when I would be home. No complaints. Just acceptance.

It should have been exactly what I wanted.

So why did it suddenly feel wrong?

My phone rang. Unknown number. I answered, expecting spam.

"Jason Hartley?" It was a man's voice.

"Who is this?"

"Andrew Philips. I'm a private investigator your wife hired this morning." He paused. 

"She wanted me to tell you that she knows about Violet Brown. She knows about the hotel meetings, the cash withdrawals, the lies. And she wanted me to tell you that she's done."

The line went dead.

I sat frozen, the phone pressed to my ear, his words echoing in my head.

Aria had hired a private investigator. Aria knew about Violet.