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“Yes,” I reply, taking the box of pizza from him. I hesitate, clutching the warm box, wondering if this is just an innocent mix-up.
“Um, actually, there might have been some mistake. I didn’t order—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “It’s okay. Sometimes glitches happen,” he extends his hand.
I reach into my robe pocket and hand over the envelope, still half-convinced he’s just a confused delivery boy.
“Thanks for the tip,” he takes the envelope with a cheerful grin and leaves.
Any lingering doubts as to the nature of Ethan and Bonnie’s plan vanish with his departure. They’re orchestrating something beyond the ordinary. They’re arranging for Harriet’s sample to be collected just as secretly, without eventually needing an address. And all of this is happening while they’re in the hospital having a baby.
Who exactly are these people?
Feeling hollowed out, I pack an overnight bag, leaving behind a note for Ryan. It’s the most humane goodbye I can muster under the circumstances.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ryan
“Baby!” I call out as I step out of the elevator and into our penthouse, dragging my suitcase behind me. The buzz of excitement at the thought of finally seeing Stella again after seven long days is almost overwhelming. Sure, we’ve talked every day, but phone calls pale in comparison to actually being able to touch her, to feel her around me.
“Stella?” I know she didn’t have work plans today; she’d promised to stay home if I could peel myself away from the office early. An easy promise to make, considering how I struggled to focus on work, my mind filled instead with thoughts of her.
I call out again, thinking she might be indulging in one of her long, relaxing baths when something on the kitchen counter catches my eye—a box of pizza, still unopened. It strikes me as odd because Stella hardly eats pizza, but I’m game for whatever she’s in the mood for.
As I reach for the box, a folded piece of paper resting on top grabs my attention. Picking it up, I unfold the note and scan the words, then read it again, and yet again, my brain refusing to process its content.
Finally, I slump into a nearby barstool, the note in hand, and force myself to read it once more, very slowly this time. A wave of shock courses through my body, leaving me numb and disorientated.
Ryan, I know it’s sudden, but I can’t do this anymore. You’re right, you Fairchilds are a lot to handle, and I’m much too independent to want a life of dark and dirty secrets. I’m reverting to our original agreement. It’s just been a few weeks over the agreed time, so hopefully, it won’t make things difficult for you.
I’ve returned to New York. The ring, The Stella—I can’t accept them. BodyLift will manage without me for now and Whirpool is practically on autopilot. Your generosity for Harriet and me won’t be forgotten. Nadia Finch will be in touch to discuss changes to Harriet’s adoption. Congratulations again on your CEO. There’s no one else more perfect for the role.
Stella
The note crumples in my clenched fist, mirroring the tight squeeze around my heart. My head drops into my hands, and I bury my fingers in my hair as the implications sink in.
Something happened to make her leave so suddenly.
…you Fairchilds are a lot to handle and I’m much too independent to want a life of dark and dirty secrets…
My mind immediately goes to Don. He stands to gain the most from my marriage crashing. And less than two hours ago, he warned me Stella would walk out.
How could he know it would happen unless he arranged it?
I dial Stella, but her line is unreachable. The lukewarm pizza suggests she left recently.
I rush into my office. The large monitor flickers to life with a few clicks, revealing the security camera feeds. Scanning through, I find nothing out of the ordinary—just the pizza delivery boy and Stella, who had been inside until she left. The timestamp shows that she left about an hour ago, only with a small suitcase.
Pausing the feed on her image, I zoom in. The details of her beautiful face twist my stomach into knots—puffy eyes, drawn, devoid of makeup.
She looks heartbroken. It isn’t fear or anger driving her away; it’s pain. Something hurt my wife enough to make her think she couldn’t stay with me.
I wrack my brain, my mind immediately going back to the woman who threw herself at me in the hotel elevator in London. A woman I don’t remember fucking, but apparently, she did. Enough to try to follow me to my room, dressed in nothing but her trench coat.
Could paparazzi have captured us and twisted the narrative? I send her a quick text.
Baby, if this is about London, I swear to you nothing happened. Whatever else it is, we’ll fix it. But if you’re in danger or if it’s something you can’t tell me, you know what to do.
