CHAPTER 43
It had been a week since we returned from Zurich. Seven days. Seven nights. And I had barely seen my husband.
Rowan left before sunrise most mornings. When I woke, his side of the bed was already cold, the sheets smooth like he had erased evidence of ever being there. Some nights he came home past midnight, quiet, careful, slipping into the room like a shadow. But at least he comes back to our home most of the night.
Other nights… He didn’t come home at all. Meetings. Dinners. “Work.” The word had become a wall I couldn’t climb.
The penthouse was too large when it was silent. Too polished. Too aware of my footsteps echoing against marble floors. I had started keeping the television on just for noise. That afternoon, as I sat at the kitchen island pretending to read, my phon
