Chapter 7
The private elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Axel stepped into the penthouse, loosening his tie with one hand. The apartment was dark. Not just dim; it was a void. The heavy curtains were drawn, and the only light came from the ambient glow of the city reflecting off the hardwood floors.
He reached for the switch on the wall by the door. The one that controlled the amber lights in the entryway. The warm, welcoming lights that had been on every single night for the last three years, waiting for him to come home. His hand met empty air. He flipped the switch up. Nothing happened.
"Claire?" he called out, his voice sharp. "Claire, the lights are broken."
His voice echoed in the vast, empty space. There was no answer. There was no soft pad of bare feet on the floor. There was no smell of dinner warming on the stove.
Axel felt a muscle tick in his jaw. He walked to the main panel and flipped the master switch. The overhead LEDs blazed to life, flooding the apartment in a harsh, cold white light. He squinted, holding up a hand to shield his eyes.
The apartment looked different in this light. It looked sterile. The white leather couches looked like slabs of ice. The marble countertops gleamed like surgical steel. There were no magazines on the coffee table. There were no shoes by the door. There was no life.
He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled it off. He tossed it backward toward the velvet bench near the entrance, expecting it to be caught, or at least to land on the soft cushion where Claire usually sat to fold laundry. The jacket hit the floor with a heavy thump.
He looked back at it, frowning. He walked into the kitchen. He pulled open the door of the Sub-Zero refrigerator. He reached inside, his hand going to the second shelf on the right, where the glass pitcher of ice water with fresh mint leaves was always kept. His fingers closed around a cold plastic bottle.
He pulled it out. It was an unopened bottle of Evian. He pushed a few others aside. They were all Evian. No mint. No pitcher. He grabbed a carton of milk. He sniffed it. It was sour.
He slammed the refrigerator door shut. The glass bottles inside rattled violently. He was thirsty. He was tired. And he was annoyed that the woman who was supposed to fix everything wasn't here to do her job.
He walked into the bedroom. The bed was made, but it was perfectly made. The corners were tight. It was how the maids made it, not how Claire made it. She always left a wrinkle, a dent where she sat to read. He went to his closet and pulled open the door. He reached for his favorite silk pajamas.
He found them on the hanger. He pulled them out and held them up. The top button on the shirt was missing. There was a tiny, ragged thread where it used to be. He stared at it.
He hadn't noticed the button was missing this morning. He hadn't noticed it yesterday. Because it hadn't been missing. Claire had always sewn them back on. She had always fixed the hems, polished the shoes, and replaced the lost buttons before he even knew they were gone.
Axel dropped the pajamas on the floor. He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest. It wasn't heartbreak; it was panic. It was the feeling of realizing that he hadn't just lost a girlfriend. He had lost the operating system of his life.
He turned and strode back into the living room. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. He didn't want to call Hayes. He didn't want to call a tailor. He wanted to call her. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted her to tell him it was okay and that she would fix it.
He dialed the number he had memorized.
"The number you have reached is not in service."
He hung up and dialed again.
"The number you have reached is not in service."
He roared. The sound was raw and violent, tearing from his throat. He hurled the phone across the room. It hit the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Central Park. The glass didn't shatter-it was bulletproof-but the phone exploded, pieces of plastic and metal skittering across the floor.
He stood in the middle of the room, his chest heaving. The apartment was silent. It was a tomb. It was a monument to his own stupidity.
He looked at the destroyed phone on the floor. He looked at the sour milk in the fridge. He looked at the missing button. She was gone. She had actually left. And she had taken the warmth, the mint water, and the buttons with her.
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