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Jack pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. She still hadn’t read his message. He tried calling her cell, but after a few rings, it went straight to voicemail. He left a brief message asking her to please call him back right away. He thumbed another quick text, asking where she was, and was she okay? That text, too, remained unread.
Deeply unsettled and growing increasingly anxious, he returned to the bedroom. His closet door was open. He stepped inside, heart beating fast. No Cleo.
It was then he noticed her suitcase was missing. What the hell? He rushed into the bathroom. Her toiletries were gone too.
“Cleo,” he breathed, confusion and anxiety now segueing into misery and panic.
If her bags were gone, the odds were that she was gone too. But why?
Where could she have gone?
On the chance she might have contacted Ellis at the club, he sent a quick text.
Good morning. Have you seen Cleo at all today?
A moment later, Ellis texted back.
Not today. Was I supposed to?
No. She must have just stepped out for a bit. If you do happen to see or hear from her, please let me know.
Will do.
With a sinking heart, he returned to the guest bedroom, looking around for some kind of clue. Finding nothing amiss save for the open desk drawer, he went back to the playroom. He stared around the space, startled to feel Annette’s ghost still hovering there. He could almost see her, bound in the leather sex sling, legs spread wide, head thrown back in ecstasy. And there she was, cuffed into the St. Andrew’s cross, her back and ass reddened from his flogger, her legs trembling with lust and desire. But the images no longer invoked the ragged, tearing pain of raw grief. While he would always miss Annette, she now nestled peacefully in a small corner of his heart, a quiet, bittersweet memory of the past.
As he looked around the playroom, he noticed the thin film of dust on the equipment, and the open blinds. Had he left them open? No. Cleo must have done that. She’d clearly been in the room. Had something in here spooked her?
As he moved farther into the room, he noticed the crumpled piece of paper on the floor, and then the frame that held their wedding photo overturned on the countertop, and all at once, he understood.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the pieces falling into place as to what must have happened. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeated.
It must have hurt for her to read that letter, which he vaguely recalled was full of gushing sentiment, heartfelt at the time, but certainly in the past. Even so, Cleo’s reaction seemed so out of proportion. After all, it wasn’t a secret that Annette and he had been devoted to one another. Surely, she understood he’d needed to mourn.
He’d explained all that—how he’d spent that first half year licking his wounds as he tried to regroup. The letter had been part of the process. He just needed to find her and make her understand.
If he could find her.
She’d taken her suitcase. Was she even now on her way to Heathrow? Or was she already winging her way out of the country, and out of his life forever?
No! He would not accept that.
He pulled out his phone again and called Cleo. This time it went directly to voicemail. He started to leave a message—to beg, to cajole, to explain—but he ended up clicking off. There was too much to say, and he didn’t want to say it as a voicemail. He needed to see her. He needed to find her. Now.
Rushing back to the bedroom, he retrieved his passport, just in case. Downstairs, he grabbed his suit jacket, which still contained his wallet, and dashed out the door. Hurtling down the hall, he ignored the elevator, taking the stairs to the lobby two at a time.
Ronald stood to attention as he appeared, moving to open the front door for him.
“Ronald,” Jack said breathlessly. “Have you seen my guest? Have you seen Cleo today?”
“Yes, sir,” Ronald replied soberly. “She left about an hour ago.” Then, as if in afterthought, “Seemed in a bit of a hurry. Benny got upset because she didn’t reply to his greeting. You know how sensitive he can be.”
Jack’s heart plummeted. That didn’t sound like the Cleo he knew—or thought he knew. She must have been very upset. “Did she say anything at all?”
Ronald paused, staring gravely at the ceiling. “Yes, sir. She said, ‘I’m fine,’ in response to my query. Between you and me, sir, she didn’t seem fine. Before I could even get the door for her, she was gone.”
“Did she have her bags with her? Her suitcase?”
“Yes, sir. I believe she did.” Ronald kept his face neutral, revealing only polite concern.“Is there anything I can do to assist, sir?”
