Chapter 3
"You didn't think you'd leave without saying goodbye, did you?" Callum asked quietly.
I ignored him, walking straight into the master bedroom. I grabbed my travel duffel from the closet and began throwing my clothes, my passport, and my external hard drives inside.
"You have twenty-eight minutes before Gideon's train leaves Central Station," Callum said, leaning against the doorframe, his watch glinting under the chandelier. "Yes, I know about the offer. I've known since he first reached out to you two years ago."
I paused, my hand hovering over my passport. "You intercepted his offers?"
"I protected our future," he replied, taking a step toward me. "Look at the screen, Nora."
He hit a button on his remote.
The wall-mounted flat screen flared on. A video began playing -- footage of Callum and me on the penthouse balcony three nights ago. His arms were wrapped around my waist, his lips against my neck, whispering promises of building a life away from the city once the winter gala concluded.
"I loved you, Nora. I still do," Callum murmured, his voice softening into that intimate cadence that had kept me trapped for six months. "The engagement with Evelyn is purely transactional. The Shaw family guarantees the zoning permits for the hotel. Stay here. Stay in the penthouse for three days until the city council signs the lease. After that, I'll handle Evelyn, and we can go back to how we were."
A sickening chill washed over me.
Why was this video recorded on a high-mounted, fixed lens?
I dropped my bag and followed the angle of the footage. I walked over to the tall mahogany wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom. Behind the crown molding, tucked between two decorative vases, sat a sleek, black surveillance camera.
A tiny red light was pulsing steadily in the dark.
A black data cable ran down behind the baseboard, connected to a portable transmitter labeled PR / Brand Security Unit 4.
"You installed surveillance in your own bedroom?" My voice dropped to a whisper.
Before Callum could answer, my phone violently buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text from Marcus Vance, the chief investigative editor at the City Chronicle.
Attached was a 15-second video clip along with a message: Nora, we just received anonymous security footage from the Price Hotel. It shows you repeatedly breaking into Callum Price's private penthouse suite over the last month. The Price PR department is claiming you are an obsessive, unstable ex-wife facing criminal stalking charges. We go to print in twenty minutes. Do you have an official statement?
My hands turned to ice as I tapped the video file.
It was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
Every frame of Callum kissing me, every clip of him handing me the penthouse key, every morning we shared coffee on the balcony had been surgically excised.
All that remained was a silent, damning montage of me unlocking the penthouse door late at night, pacing his living room, and waiting by his bed in the dark -- looking exactly like a deranged stalker who couldn't accept her divorce.
He hadn't just replaced me with Evelyn Shaw.
He had spent weeks building a premeditated smear campaign to destroy my credibility, ensuring that if I ever spoke the truth about our reconciliation, no one in the country would believe a single word.
"You manufactured this," I whispered, looking up at him. "You gave me the key so you could film me."
Callum stepped between me and the penthouse exit, his eyes dead and resolute.
"Evelyn's father demanded proof that the rumors about us were false before signing the alliance," Callum said smoothly. "I gave them what they needed. It was business."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
"Here is your choice, Nora," Callum said softly. "Put your uniform back on. Walk down to that ballroom, take the stage, and toast to my engagement with Evelyn. Smile for the cameras and tell the press you are thrilled for us."
He tapped the screen of his phone, showing the Chronicle editor's contact card.
"You do that, and I delete the drive and tell the papers it was a security malfunction. You walk out that door... and by midnight, you will be the most infamous, unemployable stalker in this city."
In my palm, my phone gave a sharp, automated chime from the Global Train app: Final boarding call. Platform 4 gates close in 22 minutes.
Trapped in the penthouse, with criminal charges hanging over my head and the train to my new life pulling out into the night, I looked into the eyes of the man I had loved for six years.