A week later, the scandal had been scrubbed from the headlines. The Conway family's PR machine had worked with brutal efficiency, burying the story under a landslide of carefully placed puff pieces and a well-timed charitable donation. The news cycle had moved on, hungry for its next meal. The world, it seemed, had forgotten about the dead male escort and Jaime Conway's night in Chelsea.

But Callie had not forgotten.

The Maybach moved through the glittering canyons of Manhattan like a ghost ship. Inside, the silence was a physical weight, pressing down on Callie, making it hard to breathe. The air, conditioned to a perfect seventy-two degrees, felt frigid.

She turned to look at Jaime. He was staring out his window, the city lights sliding across the sharp, handsome planes of his face. His profile was perfect, like something carved from marble. There were no cracks. No sign of the chaos they had just left behind. He looked tired, yes, but it was the weariness of a long day at the office, not of a man who had just been questioned about a death.

She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him again what had happened, but the words died in her throat. The coldness radiating from him was a wall she couldn't seem to breach. She had held his hand in front of the cameras, a perfect portrait of a supportive wife, but the man beside her now felt like a stranger.

The car descended into the private underground garage of their Park Avenue apartment building. The silence here was even deeper. Jaime got out the moment the car stopped, not waiting for her. He walked toward the private elevator without a backward glance.

Callie hurried to catch up, her heels clicking on the smooth concrete. She felt a frantic need to keep up, as if letting him get too far ahead would mean he'd disappear completely. They rode the elevator to the penthouse in the same suffocating silence.

He pushed open the heavy front door of their apartment and tossed his suit jacket onto a cream-colored armchair. It was a careless gesture, so unlike the meticulously neat man she knew. He went straight to the built-in bar, his back to her.

Callie stood frozen in the grand entryway, watching him. The apartment, usually a sanctuary of calm and order, felt vast and menacing tonight.

He poured a generous amount of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and drank half of it in one long swallow. The sound of him gulping the liquor was jarringly loud.

Finally, he turned to face her. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.

"The PR team is already drafting a statement," he said, his voice flat. "They'll handle it. It will all blow over in a day or two."

"Jaime, what happened?" she pleaded, taking a step toward him. "Who was that man? Why were you there?"

"I told you, it was nothing," he snapped, his patience suddenly gone. His eyes, which had been so full of warmth and reassurance just an hour ago, were now cold and hard as stone. "I don't want to talk about it. Just go to bed, Callie. Don't overthink it."

The dismissal was so sharp, so absolute, it felt like a slap. She flinched. The questions burned on her tongue, but the look in his eyes dared her to ask them.

She gave a small, defeated nod. "Okay."

She turned and walked down the long, silent hallway to the master bedroom. The loneliness was a physical ache in her chest. This was their home, but tonight it felt like a beautiful, empty museum.

She showered, the hot water doing nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in her bones. She changed into a silk nightgown and slid into her side of the enormous king-sized bed. The sheets were cool and crisp. She stared at the ceiling, listening for the sound of Jaime coming to bed.

She waited.

And waited.

Hours passed. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed: 1:47 AM. The space beside her remained empty and cold. Sleep was impossible. Her mind was a carousel of flashing cameras, reporters' shouts, and the dead, flat voice of the police officer. Male escort.

At a few minutes past two, she heard it. The soft, distant click of a door closing. Not the bedroom door. Maybe the front door? Had he left?

She threw back the duvet. The plush wool carpet was soft under her bare feet. Her throat was dry. She needed water.

She padded out of the bedroom and down the hallway. As she passed Jaime's study, she saw a thin line of yellow light spilling from under the door. It was closed, but not latched.

He was still up. A wave of concern, an old and familiar habit, washed over her. He worked too hard. He was probably stressing about the media, about the company's stock price.

She slowed her steps, intending to gently knock, to tell him to come to bed. But then she heard a sound.

A strange, breathy moan.

She stopped dead, her hand hovering in the air. Her heart, which had been beating a slow, anxious rhythm, suddenly began to pound. A drumbeat of pure dread.

He must be sick. Maybe he was in pain. The sounds were strained, guttural.

She crept closer, her bare feet making no sound on the runner. She leaned in, pressing her ear to the small gap where the door wasn't fully closed.

The sounds became clearer. A man's heavy breathing, punctuated by soft, desperate gasps. But it wasn't just one man. There was another voice, a lower murmur she didn't recognize.

And then she heard Jaime.

His voice was a low, guttural growl, thick with a kind of raw, unrestrained desire she had never, ever heard from him in the two years they had been married. It was the voice of a man completely undone by pleasure.

"Leo," he groaned. "God, yes."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Leo. That was the name the reporters had been shouting.

Her blood ran cold. It felt like all the warmth in her body was being sucked out, leaving a hollow, frozen shell. Her mind simply refused to process it. It was a scene from a movie, a story about someone else. Not her. Not her life. Not her perfect, gentle husband.

She took a step back, her body moving on its own, trying to escape. Her foot bumped into a tall, ceramic vase that stood in the corner of the hallway.

It wobbled, making a soft thump against the wall.

Inside the study, the moaning stopped. Instantly.

Silence.

A strangled gasp escaped Callie's lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. She had to get away. She turned, ready to run, to flee back to the bedroom and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But it was too late.

The study door was yanked open.

A harsh blade of light sliced across the dark hallway, pinning her in its glare. Jaime stood there, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his tie gone. His hair was a mess, and his eyes, dark and dilated, still held the fading heat of passion.

Over his shoulder, she saw him. The other man. A young, handsome man with dark, curly hair, frantically pulling on a shirt. He was sitting on the edge of Jaime's prized leather sofa.

Callie's gaze locked on the young man's face. The face from the news. The dead man's... associate? Friend? And now he was here. In her home. With her husband.

The trust she had so desperately clung to, the image of the man she loved-it all shattered. It wasn't just a crack; it was a demolition. The floor gave way beneath her, and she was falling.

Jaime's expression shifted in a horrifying instant. The shock of seeing her there was wiped away, replaced by a glacial, terrifying coldness. There was no shame. No guilt. Only annoyance.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat, hot and acidic. Her stomach revolted.

She clamped her hand over her mouth again, a guttural sound of pure disgust tearing from her chest. She turned and ran. Not to the bedroom. To the front door. Away.

She didn't look back. She didn't have to. She could feel his cold, indifferent eyes on her back as she fled her own home.

She fumbled with the lock on the front door, her hands shaking uncontrollably. It finally gave way. She wrenched it open and stumbled out into the hallway, jabbing the button for the elevator.

The doors slid open. She collapsed inside, her back sliding down the cool, mirrored wall until she was huddled on the floor.

As the elevator began its silent descent, the tears finally came. Hot, silent, and utterly devastating. They blurred the glittering lights of the city outside the glass wall, turning them into a meaningless, watery smear.

---

The elevator doors opened, revealing a spacious and silent lobby. Kelly staggered out, her hands pressed tightly on her chest, trying to steady herself. The doorman George—the kind man who always smiled at her—was now staring at her with wide eyes, his face full of concern. She didn't see him. She couldn't see anything, only the scene in the study, like a branding iron, stamped on the inside of her eyelid.

She pushed open the heavy glass door and rushed into the cold embrace of Manhattan night.

The air was biting, piercing through her thin silk nightdress into her bare arms and legs. But she was completely unaware. She ran, barefoot on the cold, merciless sidewalk of Park Avenue, with no direction, no thought, only a desperate instinct—to separate herself from that apartment, that lie.

The city becomes a blur of streetlights and shadows. Jamie's face—not the shocked one, but the coldness and cruelty that followed—replayed in her mind over and over. Without a trace of shame. Pure and utter indifference. That was what truly torn her heart: it was not just betrayal, but erasure. The two years they spent together were meaningless. She was also meaningless.

Behind him, a tire screech tore through the night sky.

A black Range Rover suddenly swerved onto the roadside, blocking her way. The passenger door suddenly popped open.

Jamie.

He rushed out, grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin like claws.

"Get in, Kelly." His voice was low and threatening.

"No!" She screamed, trying to break free from his grip. "Let go of me!"

She fought him like a beast driven to the brink. Twisting and pulling, his nails scratching the back of his hand, drawing blood. For a moment, she thought she could break free.

He groaned and gripped tighter. Suddenly, he roughly twisted her around and pinned her against the hood. Cold metal pierced her skin through thin silk. His body pressed down on her, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly.

The man who had never spoken to her loudly, the man who always touched her gently, was gone. Right in front of him was clearly a stranger, a monster.

"Do you really think you can get away?" He hoarsely said, his face only a few inches from hers. That enchanting facade was completely torn away, leaving only a chilling, reptilian coldness.

"It's all true, isn't it?" She choked up, tears and anger choking her throat. "All of it."

"Yes, sir." That word is a simple yet cruel confirmation. "I'm gay. This marriage—this sad farce—was all for my father, for the board, for the inheritance. ”

This straightforward and unapologetic confession left her breathless. A surge of burning and pure anger surged throughout his body. She raised her hand, wanting to slap that triumphant, handsome face, trying to wipe away the cold pride in his eyes.

He grabbed her wrist midair, his grip like iron pincers. He twisted her arm until she cried out in pain.

"Don't move." His voice was suppressed into a whisper, more terrifying than any roar. He leaned closer, his warm breath brushing past her ear. "If you dare to reveal a word to anyone—reporters, your small circle of friends, anyone—I will make you regret coming into this world."

He paused, letting the threat hang in the air, savoring the growing fear in her eyes.

"I'll start with ......," he continued, his voice soft as if he were chatting, "cutting off funding for that clinic in Switzerland." Effective immediately. Kelly, how long do you think your mother could have held out without those machines? ”

Ice. A pure, alluring glacier surged through her veins. She instantly lost the strength to resist. His body went limp on the hood. Her mother. That sweet, fragile mother lay helplessly in a coma thousands of miles away, her life suspended entirely by this man's money. And this money was the entire reason for this fake marriage.

She stared at him, at the man she once loved, and saw a demon.

He saw the submission in her eyes and smiled. A smug smile curled at the corner of his mouth. He let go of her wrist, stepped back, and smoothed the expensive jacket as if brushing off a small patch of fuzz.

"Go back upstairs." His voice returned to a normal, commanding tone. "Tomorrow morning when you get up, you'll be Mrs. Jamie Conway—the perfect, supportive wife of her husband. Nothing will change. Do you understand? ”

She was speechless. She could only stare at him, as the world collapsed into a black hole he had created.

He didn't need to answer. He turned back into the Range Rover, drove away, leaving her alone and heartbroken on the dark, empty street.

Her legs had lost strength. She slid down a parked car by the roadside and collapsed onto the cold curb. Grief weighs on her body, making her bend over. She hugged her knees, buried her face in it, and began to sob. Not sobbing, but silent, intermittent breathing that tugged at her throat.

The wind picked up, and the icy drizzle began to fall. Raindrops soaked through her thin nightdress, clinging tightly to her skin. After a long time, the tears finally stopped, leaving only a vast, hollow void.

She propped herself up and staggered. Her body trembled violently from the cold and shock. His vision blurred. The world became a wet asphalt road and hazy streetlights.

She started walking again, like a ghost in the rain. She walked onto a pedestrian crossing. The small white pedestrian sign on the traffic light turned into a flashing red palm, then a solid red. She didn't see it. She saw nothing.

She stepped down from the curb.

A blinding beam of light. A panicked horn sounded.

She slowly turned her head. A huge truck was rushing toward her, its headlights like two huge, blinding suns. The driver desperately tried to brake, but the slippery road betrayed him. The giant was slippering, water-sliding, unstoppable.

Kelly closed her eyes. A strange calm enveloped her. It's over. The pain will end.

The impact was a deafening explosion and a cosmic-level pain. Her body was thrown up, flying into the air like a rag doll, then crashing heavily onto the asphalt.

A sudden, burning pain swept through her head, back, and legs—the pain was everywhere. A warm, sticky dampness spread from my forehead and into my eyes.

His vision blurred. The edge of the field of vision is darkening.

At the last moment of consciousness, she heard another voice—the piercing screech of expensive tires braking hard.

A dull sound rang out with the car door slamming.

Footsteps were running toward her.

A pair of gleaming black custom leather shoes appeared at the edge of her vision, spotless even in the rain.

The owner of the shoes knelt beside her. A wave of warmth and the scent of cedar mixed with rain—crisp and fresh—washed over me.

A deep voice, carrying an emotion she couldn't put into words, called her name tensely.

"Kelly."

She tried to answer, tried to open her eyes, but she no longer had the strength.

Darkness engulfed her.