Page 124 of Outcast’s Vow

She’ll never forgive me, and she’ll hate me for it, but there’s only one thing I can do to protect Sylvie from the fallout. The only thing I can do to protect her from my choice.

I’m going to break her heart.

46

SYLVIE

Still no reply from Baptiste, not since I asked him how things were going in Europe. As Father said, he’s completed some task for the Castaways, but besides that, I know nothing. And his silence is starting to make me worry.

I’m pacing around the penthouse, working myself up into such an unsettled state that now I can’t sit still. My textbooks lie closed and untouched on my desk. My laptop is shut off.

Where are you, Baptiste?

Taking a sharp breath, I finally allow myself to dip into temptation and call his cell one more time. It rings and rings and rings. No answer.

Look, I don’t want to be the overanxious wife, always fretting over her husband and thinking of nothing else, but my gut is really telling me that this silence...

It can’t be a good omen.

I scroll through my contacts until I find the pilot of Baptiste’s private jet. I call him.

He answers. He tells me Baptiste landed in New York hours ago.

I hang up. The penthouse seems suddenly, violently silent now.

The phone shakes in my hand and my stomach drops. A million horrible scenarios flip through my head like one terrible slideshow. He could be hiding something from me. But what? Baptiste knows my past. He knows what I feel. He knows how badly I’ve been hurt before.

He wouldn’t do this to me, surely?

So I call Fabien.

“Sylvie?”

I get straight to it.

“Hey, stupid question, but Baptiste isn’t throwing a surprise party or something for me, is he?”

There’s a long pause.

“Not that I’ve heard of,” Fabien replies. “Maybe speak to Clement.”

“If he were planning something, you’d tell me, right?” I ask, praying that he can’t hear my voice faltering. “You’re not hiding something?”

“I hate surprises, Sylvie. I would tell you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I grab my coat. The penthouse is suffocating. I need to be active, not just pacing around this room making useless calls.

What’s going on, Baptiste?

I have no choice but to trust my gut. However crazy that sounds.

I take Baptiste’s spare sports car and drive over to Clement’s office, only a few blocks away. I speak to the receptionist.

“Clement’s not here,” she tells me. It’s very definite, but it sounds rehearsed.

I’m about to utter an entire string of swear words aimed at my evaporated husband when I’m interrupted by a voice from the elevator.