I closed the door behind me and made it all the way to the guest suite before the smile faded and the sting settled in. I sat on the edge of the bed, pressed my hands against my knees, and breathed.
Ninety days.
I could do ninety days.
I’d survived Aunt Eliza’s house for eighteen years. I could survive ninety days with a man who kissed my cheek in public and treated me like furniture in private.
Torres sisters never sink.
Even when the water was freezing.
CHAPTER 11
Miley
The scrambled eggs were getting cold.
I’d been up since six-thirty—an ungodly hour for me, and a record I’d set on purpose. Christopher had said he leaves early, and if he left early, that meant I needed to be up earlier, and if I was going to be living in this man’s house for ninety days, the least I could do was make sure there was food on the table when he came downstairs.
It was what I did. I fed people. It was the one thing I’d always been good at, and right now—standing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, in a house that wasn’t mine, married to a man who wasn’t mine who’d made it clear this was nothing more than a business deal—cooking was the only thing that still made sense.
So I’d made scrambled eggs. Sourdough toast, perfectly golden. Turkey bacon because I’d noticed the package in the fridge and guessed it was his preference. Fresh-squeezed orange juice because the man had an expensive high-quality juicer and someone should use it.
I’d set the dining table. Two places. Napkins folded. Juice poured.
And now I was sitting there, alone, watching the eggs go from fluffy to sad while the clock on the wall ticked past seven, then seven-fifteen, then seven-thirty.
He wasn’t coming down.
I waited five more minutes because I was stubborn. Then I stood, walked upstairs, and knocked on his bedroom door.
Nothing.
I knocked again. “Christopher?”
Silence.
I stood in the hallway and considered my options. He’d said he leaves early. It was seven-thirty.Could he already be gone?
Had I woken up at six-thirty, cooked an entire breakfast, set a table with folded napkins, and been stood up by a man who was already on his way to the office?
That would be exactly my luck. A perfect meal, prepared with care, for a man who wasn’t even in the building. My cooking career in miniature.
I should have walked away. I know I should have. But the door was right there and it wasn’t locked. I’d spent forty-five minutes on those eggs and if they were going to be eaten by nobody, I at least wanted to confirm that nobody was the intended audience.
I pushed the door open just a crack, enough to take a peek.
His bedroom was exactly what I’d expected and nothing like I’d imagined. Minimal. Clean. Dark furniture, dark bedding, nothing on the walls. It looked like a hotel room that someone checked into but never unpacked in. No photos. No books on the nightstand. No signs of the man who lived here except a watch on the dresser and a jacket draped over a chair.
The bed was made. Not slept-in-and-then-made. Made. The pillows were perfectly placed, the duvet smooth and unwrinkled. It looked like nobody had touched it in days.
That was strange.
I closed the door with a soft click and turned to leave when I heard it.
A sound.
And then the door opened. Christopher walked out, except I could have sworn I’d looked at the whole room and he wasn’t in it.
