ANMELDENCLARA'S POV The empty mansion hummed with a quiet, potent energy. It was the sound of a machine recalibrating after a critical component had malfunctioned. Liam was gone. Maya was gone. The child was gone. The west wing was a void. The silence they left behind was not a defeat; it was a blank slate.I stood at the bar in the study, pouring a single measure of an exceptionally old Scotch. The liquid was the color of burnt amber. I did not drink to soothe a frayed nerve. I drank to honor a strategic pivot. They had forced my hand, and in doing so, they had given me a cleaner, more elegant path to the same objective.Liam’s love for her was the contaminant. It had made him stupid, reckless, and ultimately, disobedient. That could not be forgiven. But raw punishment was inelegant. It created mess, sympathy, loose ends. The goal was not to bludgeon; it was to dismantle. And to dismantle their alliance, I needed a tool they would never see coming. I needed Daniel Thorne.I had always consi
CLARA'S POV The playback ended. The silence in my study was profound, a canvas upon which their foolish, feverish plans had just been painted in vivid, pathetic detail. Maya’s speech by the pool had a certain theatrical passion to it. Liam’s capitulation—the raw hope in his voice when he said “It’s worth everything”—was the most interesting part. It confirmed the depth of the infection.Love. It made them so stupid. It made them think in grand, sweeping gestures—sunlight, minefields, everything. It blinded them to the simple, granular machinery of power. To the plumbing and the wiring of control.I felt no hot jealousy. The emotion was colder, more proprietary. A disappointment that something of mine had been so thoroughly spoiled by an outside contaminant. Liam was mine. Our understanding, our partnership, the life I had built around him—it was mine. Maya Surman was a corrosive agent, and she had eaten through to the core.Their plan to run was a gift. It was chaos, and I excel at s
MAYA'S POV The guilt of Liam seeing me with James was a live wire in my chest, sparking with every heartbeat for two days. I moved through the mansion like a ghost, but a different kind than before. I was a ghost with a plan. James’s words—solid ground, a shelter—were a mantra. But the shelter felt empty when the storm I wanted to weather was Liam’s.Seeing him in the conservatory, surrendering, telling me to be happy… it wasn’t a release. It was a challenge. He thought he was the only one who could make a sacrifice. He was wrong.I waited for a moment I knew Clara would be absent, locked in her Monday afternoon portfolio reviews downtown. I found Liam not in the shadows this time, but out by the empty pool, its blue cover taut under a brittle autumn sun. He was staring at the still, covered water, his shoulders a tense line under his shirt.“We need to talk,” I said, my voice sounding calmer than I felt.He didn’t turn. “If it’s about the market, don’t. I’m glad you have… solid grou
MAYA'S POV The market was a symphony of chaos I craved. The shout of vendors, the slippery scent of fish on ice, the bright, defiant piles of oranges and peppers—it was the antithesis of the Finch mansion’s sterile, perfumed silence. I spotted James at a small table by a coffee stall, two paper cups steaming between his hands. He didn’t smile when he saw me. His face was set in lines of sober concentration, the easy charm of our dinner replaced by a quiet intensity that made my stomach clutch.“Hey,” I said, sliding onto the bench opposite him.“Maya.” He pushed a cup toward me. “Black, two sugars. Like you used to take it.”A simple, remembered kindness. It should have warmed me. Instead, it felt like a data point. I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the heat sear my palms. “You said we needed to talk.”He didn’t soften the blow. “The Grove wasn’t luck,” he said, his voice low under the market’s din. “It was a blueprint. Clara’s. The cab that arrived exactly on time. The tabl
MAYA'S POV The orchids on my dresser were too perfect. Their waxy, white petals looked like they’d been carved, not grown. James’s note was sweet. It was the kind of note a woman should cherish. To new beginnings. I tried to feel the fluttering hope it was meant to inspire. All I felt was a hollow echo, and beneath it, a persistent, low-grade dread.The do-over had been everything I’d asked for. Charming company, easy conversation, no visible specters haunting the table. James had been a gentleman, the kiss on my cheek a promise of patience, not pressure. It was what I’d wanted. So why did I feel like I’d betrayed something sacred?The answer was a face, etched in anguish in a restaurant’s shadows. Liam.Sleep was a restless, guilty tide. I dreamed of green silk and cold marble, of a kiss that wasn’t mine to witness.Morning brought the sound of small, thunderous feet. Leo was home, bursting through the west wing door like a sunbeam, trailing the scent of country air and Marta’s cook
LIAM'S POV Silence has a weight. Tonight, it presses down on the Finch mansion like water at the bottom of a deep, dark sea. Clara left two hours ago for the Lyceum Foundation dinner, her parting words a masterclass in casual cruelty. “Hold down the fort, darling. I’m sure you’ll find a way to amuse yourself.” The click of the door behind her was a period on the sentence of my solitude.Leo is gone. Marta took him to the country house this afternoon, a “special treat” arranged with military precision. The emptiness they left behind isn’t just an absence of sound; it’s an absence of life, of heartbeats.And Maya.Maya is on her do-over.The phrase is a splinter working its way deeper into my mind with every passing minute. Do-over. I see her at La Belle, the emerald silk a shock against her skin, her eyes finding mine in the shadows. That look—a searing connection of shared agony—was ours. It was real, even in its horror. Now, she’s out there with him, with James, trying to overwrite







