Chapter 3

3.

Per Se. One of the most expensive and hardest-to-book Michelin three-star restaurants in New York City.

Through the massive windows, you could see Columbus Circle and the glittering expanse of Central Park. Everything about this place screamed money and status.

Spencer had clearly chosen this restaurant to "fix" our relationship, or rather, to flex his wealth and remind me what I would lose if I left him.

"The haircut is a disaster, Chloe," Spencer said casually, slicing into his Wagyu beef. "My PR team will have to come up with some explanation. Maybe we can say you did it for a charity event? Or you developed some kind of skin condition?"

My hand tightened around my wine glass. The red wine swirled, dark as blood.

"I'm not explaining anything," I said flatly. "I like it."

Spencer put down his knife and fork, looking at me as if I were an alien. "You like it? Chloe, the second you put on this engagement ring, you stopped being just 'you.' You are the future matriarch of the Whitman family. Your image is part of the family's assets."

Assets. Always assets.

Just then, Spencer's phone lit up. He glanced at it, his brow furrowed, and placed it face down on the table.

A minute later, it lit up again.

The third time, it rang loudly, a jarring noise in the hushed, elegant dining room.

"Aren't you going to get that?" I swirled my wine. "Maybe there's a problem with one of your assets."

Spencer forced a laugh and picked up the phone. "Probably an emergency at the office."

He had barely put it to his ear when Ivy’s frantic, tear-choked voice burst through the receiver. Even without speakerphone, I could hear every word.

"Spencer! Help me! My keycard isn't working, and I'm trapped in the archives... It's so dark in here... You know I have claustrophobia! I can't breathe... Please, you have to come..."

Heads turned at the nearby tables.

The color drained from Spencer's face. He was panicked in a way I had never seen before. He shot up from his seat. "Ivy? What happened? Where are you?"

"The basement archives... the lock is jammed... I really can't breathe... please..."

Spencer didn't even say a word to me. He grabbed his car keys and bolted for the exit.

He was almost at the door when he remembered I was still there. He stopped and looked back, his eyes filled with an urgent, entitled expression.

"It's Ivy! She has severe claustrophobia, she could have a panic attack! I have to get to the office. You wait here, I'll be right back."

I just sat there, watching his frantic retreat, feeling like I was watching a terrible, unfunny play.

Trapped in the archives of a top-tier Manhattan skyscraper?

A building with 24-hour security, emergency call buttons, and perfect cell service to dial 911.

But she didn't call 911. She called her boss. My fiancé.

And that same man, who prided himself on being rational and unshakable in the face of market crashes, had just abandoned his fiancée in the most expensive restaurant in New York City because of a phone call from his assistant.

The waiter approached our table awkwardly, holding the chef's special truffle risotto. "Ma'am... this is..."

"Just put it there," I said, pointing to the empty seat across from me. "That one's for the ghost."

"Will you be continuing your meal?"

"Of course." I raised my glass, toasting the dark void of Central Park outside the window. "Why wouldn't I? This is the most peaceful dinner I've had in ten years."