Chapter 3 Three

Lucas Hartwell had never felt so certain about a decision in his life.

At least, that was what he told himself as he leaned back in the leather chair of Le Marais, the most exclusive restaurant in the city, watching Freya Lancaster laugh across the candlelit table.

She was exactly as he remembered. Golden hair, bright eyes, that soft smile that used to make his whole world stop. Freya had been his best friend since they were children, his first love, and the first person to ever break his heart.

She had cheated on him. He knew that. Everyone knew that.

But sitting here tonight, with her fingers wrapped around his, he was ready to forgive all of it.

It sounds insane, he thought. But that's how much I loved her.

"I missed you," Freya whispered, squeezing his hand. "Every single day, Lucas."

"I know." He smiled. "I'm glad you're back."

He should have felt happy. He wanted to feel happy.

So why did a small, stubborn knot sit in his chest like a stone?

---

He had married Eve Hartley thinking time would fix everything.

The memory came uninvited, as it always did.

Three years ago, he had woken up in a hotel room with a pounding headache, his secretary asleep beside him, and every news site in the country screaming about the affair. Someone had spiked their drinks at the business dinner. He had never found out who.

To stop the scandal, he had asked Eve to play his fiancée for a few weeks. It was supposed to be temporary. Quiet. Clean.

Then she had told him she was pregnant.

He remembered the way the room had spun. He had begged her for time. He wasn't ready for a child. He wasn't ready for a wife, especially not his own secretary, a woman he barely knew.

But somehow, his mother had found out before he could decide anything.

Brielle had told him later that Eve was the one who ran to Madam Hartwell with the news. And Madam Hartwell, who had waited years for a grandchild, had made her demand in one sentence.

Marry her, or I will cut you off completely.

He had been furious. But a child was a child, and he had agreed. He told himself he could learn to tolerate the marriage. Maybe even care for it.

Brielle had warned him again and again. She's lying, Lucas. There's no baby. She's after the money. Open your eyes.

He hadn't believed her. He had thought she was just being loyal to Freya.

Then the miscarriage happened.

He still remembered the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic, the doctor's careful voice. I'm sorry. And Eve lying pale and still on the bed.

Something in him had snapped.

She paid that doctor, a voice in his head had hissed. She planned this. First the fake pregnancy, now the fake loss. She's been playing you from the start.

He had looked at her, and all he had felt was hatred.

It was easier than grief.

After that, whatever tenderness had grown between them, and there had been some, in those early months, he had killed it himself. He had turned cold. He had stayed away. And Eve had kept smiling and kept cooking and kept waiting at the door, like a stubborn ghost he couldn't get rid of.

Now his mother was dead. Freya was home. The lies were over.

He had every reason to be free.

"Lucas?" Freya tilted her head. "You went somewhere."

"Sorry." He shook off the thoughts. "Long day."

---

After dinner, he dropped Freya at her penthouse, declined her invitation to come up, and headed to the Gold Room, a private club on the top floor of a downtown tower.

He needed a drink. He rarely touched alcohol, but tonight, he wanted something to burn that strange feeling out of his chest.

His three oldest friends were waiting in their usual corner booth. Dominic Reyes, tall and calm, swirling a glass of whiskey. Callum Pierce, loud and cheerful. Rhett Mason, the quiet one, who always saw more than he said.

Lucas ordered a bottle of vodka and dropped into the seat.

"Gentlemen," he said, raising his glass. "I'm getting a divorce."

Silence.

Dominic's brow furrowed. "You're actually going through with it?"

"Already done." Lucas shrugged, aiming for casual. "I gave her the papers tonight. It's the best decision for both of us."

Callum shook his head slowly. "I don't know, man. Eve's always been good to you. Honestly, I never understood why you wanted out."

"Good?" Rhett scoffed, clapping Lucas's shoulder before Lucas could answer. "She's been holding him back for years. This is the right move, Lucas. You've got Freya now. That's all you need."

Dominic and Callum exchanged a glance. Neither argued.

Lucas drank.

He waited for the relief. He had waited for it all day. He had imagined this moment for months, the weight lifting, the chains falling off.

But it didn't come.

Instead, there was a quiet, nagging unease that followed him through every sip, every joke, every laugh. He pushed it down. Once it's over, I'll feel fine, he told himself. Once she signs and leaves, everything will go back to normal.

He left the club a little after midnight.

---

The mansion was dark when he pulled into the driveway.

That was the first strange thing. Eve always left the porch light on for him. Even on the nights he came home at three in the morning. Even on the nights he didn't come home at all.

Tonight, the porch was black.

He climbed out of the car and frowned. The front door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped into the foyer.

"Eve?"

His voice echoed.

He had expected to find her sitting in the living room, red-eyed and desperate, ready to beg again. He had even rehearsed what he would say. It's over. Sign the papers.

But the living room was empty.

So was the kitchen. So was the dining room, though the candles had been blown out, and the table cleared and wiped clean.

Something cold crept down his spine.

"Gloria?" he called. "Where is Eve?"

No answer. Gloria had already gone to bed.

He climbed the stairs two at a time and strode down the hallway to the master bedroom. He pushed the door open.

And stopped.

The room was spotless. The closet was open. Half of it was empty, and the half that remained held only the expensive clothes he had bought her, still on their hangers, untouched.

Then his eyes landed on the bed.

The divorce agreement lay perfectly centered on the white sheets. And resting on top of it, glinting under the lamp, was a gold ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lucas's heart stopped.

He walked slowly toward the bed, as if the floor might break. He picked up the papers. Her signature was there, neat and shaky at the same time, right beside his own.

She had signed.

She actually left.

He had been so sure she wouldn't. He had been sure she would cry, argue, cling to his ankles the way she always did. He had only meant to scare her, to push her into making the first move so he could end things cleanly.

He hadn't expected her to go.

He dropped onto the edge of the bed and stared at the ring in his palm. It was lighter than it looked.

"This is what you wanted," he said aloud. "This is what you've wanted for three years."

The silence didn't answer.

He looked around the room, and the truth hit him, piece by piece. The pictures missing from the walls. The flowers gone from the vase. Her perfume, the faint jasmine scent that had lingered in every corner of this house, fading.

It was as though she had never lived here at all.

Why does it hurt?

The question startled him. His chest felt hollow, scraped out. He pressed a hand against it, confused.

I'm free. I should be happy.

But all he felt was emptiness. And beneath the emptiness, something worse was starting to crawl up through his ribs.

Regret.

---

He grabbed his phone and dialed her number.

The number you have dialed is not reachable.

He dialed again. And again.

Not reachable.

"Come on," he muttered. "Pick up."

Who could he even call? Eve had no family. She was an orphan, raised by a church in a small town. She had no close friends, because she had spent three years giving every second of her time to him and this house.

She has no one, he realized, and the thought sent ice through his veins. She has nowhere to go.

He was on his feet before he knew it, keys in hand, running out into the night.

He drove to every train station. Every bus terminal. He checked the airport, searching the departure boards, scanning faces in the terminal until his eyes burned. He drove past cheap motels and church shelters and every street corner he could think of.

Nothing.

By dawn, he stood alone in the parking lot of the airport, gripping the steering wheel, breathing hard.

Eve Hartley had vanished like smoke.

---

The next few days were a blur.

He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He sat in his office staring at spreadsheets he couldn't read, letting calls go to voicemail, snapping at anyone who spoke to him. Freya called him five times. He ignored every one.

At night, he walked through the silent mansion like a man haunted. Her favorite chair by the window. Her mug in the cabinet. The small kitchen notebook where she had written his favorite dishes in neat handwriting.

He had never noticed how much of her was in every corner of this house.

She tried, he thought, turning a page. Every day. She tried so hard.

And he had treated her like dirt.

On the fourth night, sitting alone on the cold bedroom floor with her wedding ring in his fist, Lucas finally admitted what he had been running from.

He didn't hate her.

He had never hated her.

He had spent three years convincing himself that he did, because hating her was easier than admitting that the woman who waited up for him every night, who learned his favorite dishes, who stood by his side at his mother's funeral when no one else would, had slowly become the best part of his life.

And he had thrown her away for a girl who had cheated on him.

I still love her.

The truth landed like a punch to the stomach.

I'm in love with my wife.

He pushed himself to his feet. His hands were shaking.

I can't give up. I won't.

He grabbed his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.

"Mr. Brooks," he said when the line picked up. His voice was unsteady. "I need you to find someone for me."

The private investigator was silent for a beat. "Someone important, sir?"

"The most important person I have." Lucas squeezed his eyes shut. "Eve Hartwell. My wife."

"Your... wife?"

"Search the entire country if you have to. Check every border, every hospital, every record. Just find her and bring her back to me." His voice cracked. "I can't let her go."

"I'll begin immediately, sir," Mr. Brooks said. "I'll report as soon as I have anything."

The line went dead.

Lucas lowered the phone and stared at the empty bed.

He had been a fool. A blind, arrogant fool.

But he swore to himself, in the dark, with her ring burning in his palm, that when he found her, if she would ever let him speak, he would never let her out of his sight again.

Not ever.