Too Late Mr. Noble: You Can't Afford Me

The phone vibrated against the hard surface of the makeup table, a harsh, mechanical buzz that cut through the low hum of the studio. Elle Allison stared at the screen. The name Carlyn flashed urgently.

She didn't want to look. Her stomach gave a sharp, warning twist, the kind that usually preceded bad news or a missed meal. She slid her finger across the glass.

The photo was grainy, clearly taken with a high zoom from a dark corner, but the subjects were unmistakable. Hunt Noble sat in a leather booth at the Polo Club. He was leaning in, his posture relaxed, dangerously intimate. A woman with blonde hair and a dress that cost more than a mid-sized sedan was whispering into his ear.

Elle focused on Hunt's mouth. The corner of his lip was quirked upward.

He was smiling.

Her fingers tightened around the phone until the edges bit into her skin. Her knuckles turned the color of old bone. It wasn't the woman. There were always women. It was the smile. He hadn't smiled at her like that in six months.

"Five minutes to set, Ms. Allison!"

The makeup artist pushed through the door, sponges and brushes in hand.

Elle shoved the phone face down. She forced her facial muscles to relax, pulling her lips into the vacant, sweet curve the world expected from her. The mask slid into place. It felt heavy today.

"Ready," she said. Her voice was light, airy, and completely fake.

Three hours later, the shoot wrapped. Elle didn't go home. She drove her Audi toward Fifth Avenue, navigating the late afternoon traffic with a kind of numb precision.

The interior of the jewelry store smelled of expensive perfume and old money. The clerk, a man with a suit that fit too perfectly, brought out the velvet box with reverent hands.

"The custom sapphires, Ms. Allison. As requested."

Elle opened the box. The blue stones caught the light, cold and brilliant. Engraved on the back of the platinum setting were the initials H.N.

Three months. She had ordered these three months ago to mark their three-year anniversary. She ran her thumb over the engraving. It felt sharp.

"They're perfect," she said, though the words tasted like ash.

The penthouse was dark when she arrived. The silence in Hunt's apartment wasn't peaceful; it was oppressive. It felt like a vacuum waiting to suck the air out of her lungs.

Elle turned on the single light in the foyer. She placed the velvet box on the console table, right in the center, where it couldn't be missed. Then she sat on the sofa.

She waited.

Time moved like thick syrup. Midnight came and went. One a.m. Two a.m. Her stomach cramped, a physical knot of hunger and anxiety that made her nauseous.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open, and Hunt Noble walked in. He brought the cold November air with him, mixed with the scent of scotch and a perfume that wasn't hers.

He didn't