Chapter 2

The kitchen light feels too harsh, bleaching the color from the world as I slump against the counter, Oliver perched on the edge beside me. My hands shake as I grip a lukewarm cup of coffee, the ceramic biting into my palms.

"Perfume," Oliver repeats, his tail twitching with a feline version of impatience. "That's the key detail, human. The scent on Ryan's shirt."

I swallow hard, my stomach roiling. "What... what did it smell like?"

He closes his eyes, tilting his head back as if sniffing the air. "Flowers. Not the nice kind, though. More like... expensive flowers. Jasmine, maybe? And something else. Something sweet and fake."

Victoria's perfume. I'd recognize that sickly floral scent anywhere—it's the same one she wore to the marketing gala last year, when she cornered me by the canapés and made a condescending comment about my "adorable little apartment" in Lincoln Park.

My fingers tighten around the mug until my knuckles turn white. "What else, Ollie? Tell me everything."

He opens one eye, peering at me with a feline version of exasperation. "You want the whole story? Fine. It started a few weeks ago. Ryan would come home late, always smelling like that perfume and red wine. He'd be on his phone, typing away with this smug little grin on his face." Oliver's lip curls in disgust. "One night, I saw him whispering to someone in the living room. They were talking about you—"

My breath catches, the coffee suddenly tasting like ash in my mouth. "What did he say?"

"Not much." The cat's ears fold back, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Something about 'keeping you busy' and 'the apartment being perfect.' Then he kissed her."

The mug slips from my fingers, shattering against the tile floor. Coffee splatters across my bare feet, but I barely feel the sting. "He brought her here? To our home?"

Oliver's tail lashes back and forth, his green eyes glinting with a fierce, protective light. "Yes. And I saw more. Wine glasses on your bedside table—with bruises around the stems. Lipstick on the rim. Cigarette butts in the ashtray."

I press a hand to my mouth, bile rising in my throat. "You're sure it was her? Victoria?"

He gives me a look that clearly says, Are you kidding me, human? "Who else would it be? She's the only one pompous enough to leave her business card on the kitchen counter."

My vision blurs, tears burning the backs of my eyes as I picture it—Ryan, laughing and drinking and kissing my boss in our bed, in our home, while I was working late to pay the rent.

"Madison?" Oliver's voice softens, and he nudges my hand with his head. "You need to get out of here. Away from this place. Away from him."

But I shake my head, my jaw tightening as I straighten up. "No. I need to see it for myself."

***

Midnight finds me huddled in my car outside the Lincoln Park apartment, my phone glowing with a stream of frantic texts from Chloe.

Mads, are you insane?! You can't just break in!

I grit my teeth, typing out a quick reply with trembling fingers. I have to see it. Trust me.

There's a pause, and then three dots appear, followed by a resigned message. Fine. I'm bringing tools.

Twenty minutes later, Chloe materializes beside me, her neon-green nails clutching a set of lockpicks that glint ominously in the streetlight.

"Misspent youth," she mutters, shouldering past me to examine the door. "Ryan really thought a cheap secondary lock would keep you out?"

I hover behind her, my heart pounding in my chest. "Be careful—"

"Relax." She grunts, twisting the pick with a practiced flick. The lock clicks open, and Chloe gives me a triumphant smirk. "Welcome home."

We slip inside, the darkness wrapping around us like a shroud. I fumble for the light switch, but Chloe catches my wrist.

"Not yet," she whispers, her voice tight. "Let your eyes adjust. We don't know what we're walking into."

I nod, my pulse thundering in my ears as we stand there, frozen, listening to the creaks and groans of the empty apartment. It smells different—wrong. Like Victoria's perfume and Ryan's cologne have infected the very walls.

Chloe steps into the shadows, motioning for me to follow. "Stay close. I'll keep watch."

I move cautiously, my socked feet whispering against the hardwood as we make our way through the living room. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting eerie stripes across the furniture. The TV is off, the couch pristine—no sign of the disarray I'd expected.

But then I see it. A single, crimson lipstick-stained cigarette butt in the ashtray on the coffee table.

My breath hitches, and Oliver's voice echoes in my head, sharp and accusing. Told you.