The silence in the penthouse was louder than the thunder outside.Ethan slammed the heavy oak door behind him, the envelope from the restaurant crumpled in his fist. He expected to find Grace in the kitchen, perhaps nursing a cup of tea, waiting for him to scold her for that little "performance" at L’Oiseau Bleu.Instead, he found a tomb."Grace?" he barked, his voice echoing off the minimalist marble walls.No answer. He strode into the master suite. The walk-in closet, usually a meticulously organized sanctuary of her modest, beige dresses, was wide open.It was empty.Not just of her clothes, but of her scent. Every trace of the woman who had lived here for five years—the jasmine soap, the sketchbooks she used to hide under the bed, the small porcelain bird her grandmother had given her—was gone.He looked at the bed. On her pillow sat his wedding ring. Beside it was a single note, written in her elegant, unassuming script:“I was never a Hart, Ethan. And I was never yours. Thank y
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