Chapter 2

"This wasn't a last-minute decision."

When I returned to the bedroom with the inventory sheet in my hand, Sloane's breathing had settled. Adrian was still sitting beside her, and her hand was still resting in his palm.

The moment he saw the date on the page, his expression paused.

"I was going to talk to you."

"When? After she'd been here long enough? Or after I found my own clothes in the guest room?"

Sloane pulled her hand away and spoke softly. "Adrian, I can explain. After what happened at the hotel, I asked if I could stay here for a few days. I never asked for your bedroom."

She called it your bedroom while still wearing my robe.

Adrian stood. "Her doctor doesn't want her living alone right now. The master bedroom is the only one with a private terrace, and she needs fresh air when she has an episode. The movers were just getting things organized ahead of time. That doesn't mean I planned to hide anything from you."

"The inventory sheet has both our names on it."

"Because the movers needed to know where everything went."

"And did I need to know where everything went?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, finally letting his impatience show. "Your father has been in bad shape. I didn't want to add something else to your stress. Then you come home and immediately upset Sloane like this. What exactly did you expect me to do?"

That silenced me.

For seven years, every time Sloane needed Adrian, I became the person who was expected to understand.

Halfway through our anniversary dinner, Sloane was too afraid to walk into her divorce attorney's office alone. Adrian told me to order dessert without him.

On my father's sixty-fifth birthday, Sloane had her first therapy appointment. Adrian sat outside the office for three hours while an entire table waited for him.

In last year's Christmas family photo, his mother pulled Sloane next to Adrian and asked me to stand a little farther back because, "She just got divorced. She's lonely enough already."

Every single time, Adrian told me he only needed me to be understanding this once.

"I expected you to ask your wife before moving another woman into our bedroom."

"She's not another woman. She's a friend I've known for twenty years, and she's in treatment."

"She's also your ex-fiancee."

The room went silent for two seconds.

Sloane lowered her eyes. Adrian's face hardened.

"Don't make this sound uglier than it is."

For a moment, I did not know what else there was to say.

The fireworks outside had ended. Only the faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. A lamp I had chosen glowed beside the bed. Sloane's medication, phone, and half-finished glass of water sat on my side of the nightstand, as if she had already been living there for weeks.

I went to the closet.

All my clothes were gone.

"I need something clean to wear."

Adrian's tone softened slightly. "The blue guest room is ready. Stay there tonight. I'll take you back to the hospital in the morning."

"I thought you'd come to the hospital the night my father had surgery."

"I already had someone contact the head of cardiology."

"I didn't need the head of cardiology." I looked at him. "I called you seven times that night."

His eyes shifted away for a fraction of a second.

"The foundation gala couldn't be canceled at the last minute. And Sloane had an episode right before the fireworks. I couldn't leave."

"The fireworks were for her."

"They were part of a fundraising event for the treatment center."

"Her name was written across the sky."

His jaw tightened. "Laurel, I don't want to fight with you tonight."

Neither did I.

I found two clean outfits in the blue guest room and shoved my father's insurance paperwork into my bag. When I passed the master bedroom again, Sloane was already lying down. Adrian was pulling the covers up around her.

He followed me to the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the hospital."

"You haven't slept in three days. At least wait until the driver gets back."

"No."

I reached the front door and heard him behind me.

"When your father's condition is stable, we'll deal with the bedroom situation."

I did not turn around.

At four in the morning, my father finally woke up. He still could not speak, but he squeezed my hand.

At nine, the rehabilitation center called and said an $18,000 transfer deposit had to be paid by noon.

I opened the personal trust account managed by the Mercer family office and entered the amount.

A red notice appeared across the screen.

Transfer permissions for this account were changed four days ago. Any withdrawal over $500 now required approval from trustee signatory Adrian Mercer.

The authorization had been changed the same day the movers packed my bedroom.