Nora's POV
Bacon sizzled somewhere below. The smell of cinnamon and butter drifted through the crack under my door.
I opened my eyes to unfamiliar ceiling—too high, too white, crown molding that probably cost more than my rent used to.
Right. Derek's apartment. My prison. My new reality.
I pushed back silk sheets that whispered against my skin—so different from the cotton ones I'd slept in for years. My bare feet sank into carpet thick enough to lose small objects in.
The hallway stretched ahead, all polished hardwood and tasteful art. I moved quietly, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.
At the bottom of the stairs, I froze.
A woman stood at the stove, humming something classical. Gray-streaked hair pulled back in a bun, white apron tied neatly at her waist, flour dusting one elbow.
"Who are you?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
She jumped. The spatula in her hand clattered against the pan. When she turned, her eyes were kind—crinkled at the corners from years of smiling.
"Mary. I'm the house assistant." She wiped her hands on her apron, left white streaks on the fabric. "You must be Mrs. Riley."
Mrs. Riley. The name sat heavy in my mouth, tasted wrong.
I dropped onto one of the kitchen island stools. The marble was cold against my forearms. Mary slid a bowl across to me—perfectly cut fruit, arranged like something from a magazine.
"How long have you worked here?" I speared a strawberry with my fork.
"Oh, goodness." She turned back to flip bacon, each piece perfectly browned. "Since Mr. Derek was in diapers. I was his nanny before I became the housekeeper. Watched him take his first steps right there in the living room."
"Derek." I bit into the strawberry. Sweet burst on my tongue, almost too much. A small laugh escaped.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. "Something amusing?"
"No, I—" I shook my head. "Does he actually live here? This Derek?"
Mary's hands stilled over the stove. Her shoulders tensed beneath the apron. She resumed cooking, but slower now. "He comes and goes. May I ask why you want to know?"
I took my time answering. Another piece of fruit. A sip of the orange juice that had appeared beside my bowl without me noticing. Let the silence stretch thin.
"I need answers. And since I have no idea where to find him, I'll wait right here until he decides to show up."
My phone buzzed across the marble. Noelle's name lit the screen, followed by her message: *OMG call me NOW!!!*
Before I could swipe to read more, the phone started ringing. I answered.
"Hey—"
"Oh my God, is it TRUE?" Noelle's voice exploded through the speaker, loud enough that Mary glanced over. "I saw the photos online and thought someone hacked your accounts, but then your dad confirmed it and—"
"Noelle." I pressed my fingers to my temple. "Breathe."
"You got MARRIED. Yesterday. To someone who's not Jacob." She paused. "Right? Or am I losing my mind?"
"You're not losing your mind." I stared at the bowl of fruit, watched a blueberry roll slowly toward the edge. "I can't wrap my head around it either. Feels like someone else's nightmare."
" I'm so sorry I was not there for you. What are you going to do?"
The blueberry fell. Bounced once on the marble. Rolled under the refrigerator.
"Stay here, I guess. At least until I get answers about why it had to be me."
When I set the phone down, Mary turned from the stove. Her face... softer now, almost pleading.
"Mr. Derek is a good man." The words tumbled out fast, like she'd been holding them back. "He seems cold, I know, but underneath all that ice, he's—"
I laughed. Couldn't help it. "Cold? I wouldn't even know. I don't know anything about him. Not his favorite color, not what he does for work, not even what his face looks like in daylight."
"Please." Mary twisted the dish towel between her hands, wringing it like a neck. "Be patient with him. He's struggling with things he'd never admit to anyone."
"Stop." My fork clattered into the bowl. "Everyone keeps telling me to be nice to him. To understand him. To give him time." I stood. The stool scraped across tile. "What about me? What about what he did to ME?"
"I'm sure he had his—"
"Reasons. Right. His reasons." I grabbed the bowl. "What about MY reasons? Does anyone care about those?"
Mary opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the twisted towel in her hands.
I headed for the stairs.
"Mrs. Riley, please—"
"Don't." I didn't turn around. "Just don't."
---
Three steps from my bedroom door, a sound stopped me cold.
*Mew.*
Soft. Plaintive. Coming from behind a door I hadn't opened yet.
I approached slowly. White paint, brass handle, slightly ajar. Pushed it open with one finger.
A white cat sat in a perfect square of sunlight, tail wrapped around its paws. Green eyes fixed on me. Unblinking.
*Mew.*
I screamed.
Slammed the door.
Realized too late I'd shut myself IN with the cat, not OUT.
The cat stared at me. I stared back. Neither of us moved.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Mary burst through the door, eyes wide.
"What happened? Are you hurt?"
"Cat!" I pointed. "There's a cat!"
Mary's panic dissolved into something dangerously close to laughter. She crossed to the cat, scooped it up. It purred immediately, rubbing its face against her chin.
"This is Penelope." Mary scratched behind white ears. "Miss Cathy gave her to Mr. Derek last Christmas. She's harmless."
"Cathy?" My heartbeat was starting to slow.
"His stepsister." Mary's voice went soft. "His father adopted her when her parents died. Car accident. She was only three years old. Never even got to know them properly."
Penelope watched me with those green eyes. Judging. Finding me lacking.
"Great." I backed toward the door. "So now I know exactly three facts about my husband. His name is Derek, he has a sister named Cathy, and he owns a cat that materializes out of thin air like some kind of ghost."
"Why don't you explore?" Mary shifted the cat in her arms. "Get to know your new home."
Home. As if this marble and steel cage could ever be home.
---
Hours later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, studying the stranger staring back. She wore my face, but her eyes were different. Harder. Older than yesterday.
I grabbed my purse. Checked my phone. The address Noelle had sent glowed on the screen, followed by three exclamation points.
Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up to a building I would normally cross the street to avoid. Cracked facade, spray paint tags, windows covered in bars.
"You sure about this, lady?" The driver twisted in his seat, eyebrows raised.
I counted out cash. Added an extra twenty. "I'm sure."
The stairs groaned under each step. Wood soft with rot or water damage or years of neglect. Paint peeled in long strips, curling away from the walls.
Voices drifted from behind frosted glass on the second floor.
"—don't DO that. We find people. That's ALL we do."
"Then what's the POINT?" A woman's voice, raw with anger or tears or both. "Why would I pay you if you can't—"
The door flew open. A woman in a fur coat pushed past me, heels hammering down the stairs. Expensive perfume and rage in equal measure.
I counted to ten. Pushed the door open.
The office was exactly what the building promised—desk buried under papers, coffee rings on every surface, a plant dying slowly on the windowsill. A man sat behind the desk, maybe fifty, maybe sixty. Comb-over losing its battle. Tie loose at his throat.
"Yeah?" He didn't look up from whatever he was writing.
"I need to find someone." I sat in the chair across from him. Cracked leather. Stuffing poking through.
"No divorce work. No custody battles. No—"
I placed Jacob's photo on the desk. Hard enough that it made a sound.
The detective picked it up. His eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline.
"Well, hell." He tossed it back. "This bastard again."
My stomach dropped like an elevator with cut cables. "Again?"
"You're victim number nine." He leaned back. Chair squeaked in protest. "Maybe ten. Lost count after seven or eight. What'd he take? Bank account? Credit cards?"
"Everything." The word came out barely above a whisper.
He studied me. Really looked at me for the first time. Something flickered in his tired eyes—pity, maybe. Or recognition.
"Yeah." He pulled out a form, yellow with age. "They all say something like that. What name did he use with you?"
Heat crawled up my neck, flushed my cheeks. "Does it matter?"
"Nope." He uncapped a pen. Click. "Different name every time. Smart bastard, I'll give him that. Leave your info. Standard rate is two grand upfront, two more when I locate him."
I placed my business card on the desk. NORA MATTHEWS, FREELANCE WRITER. Phone number and email below.
Then the envelope. Thick. Heavy. Four thousand in cash—every penny I'd saved for a wedding that turned into a funeral for my old life.
He didn't count it. Just opened the drawer and tucked it inside. "I'll be in touch."
---
Outside, sunlight hit me like a slap. Too bright. Too cheerful. The world just going on like nothing had changed.
I flagged a cab. Climbed inside. My phone rang before we'd gone two blocks. Noelle again.
I leaned my head against the cool window, watching the city blur past. Buildings. People. Normal lives.
"Almost there, miss," the driver said.
I glanced up at the rearview mirror to respond—and my blood turned to ice.
The driver's eyes met mine in the reflection.
Jacob's eyes.
"Hello, Nora," he said, his smile sharp in the mirror.