CLAIRE ANDERSON
I've been in the penthouse for three days, and I've seen Xavier exactly twice. Once was a glimpse of him disappearing into his study, his silhouette framed by the doorway before the door clicked shut behind him. The second time was last night, when I heard footsteps in the hallway at 2 AM and pressed my ear against my door, listening to the soft tread of his shoes on the marble floor. He didn't stop. He didn't knock. He just walked past my room like I didn't exist, and I lay awake for hours afterward, staring at the ceiling and wondering what kind of marriage this was supposed to be.
The note appears under my door this morning, written on heavy cream paper in sharp, precise handwriting. "Dining room. 8 AM. We need to discuss logistics." No greeting. No signature. Just co
