I stare at the words on my screen.
Permanent revocation of your license.
It's a death sentence in bureaucratic font.
An execution of my entire identity.
My phone rings, startling me so badly I almost drop it.
The screen flashes: THEO RAINE.
Of course.
The architect of my destruction, calling to check on the demolition progress.
I decline the call.
I need a minute.
A year.
A lifetime.
Two seconds later, he texts.
I'm downstairs.
My blood runs cold.
Another text.
We need to talk. Your lobby is starting to look like the red carpet at the Oscars.
The press. They're here. At my clinic.
Another text.
Get in your car. Leave through the back garage. I'll follow you. Don't go to your apartment.
My fingers tremble as I type back.
Where am I supposed to go?
The reply is instant.
And devastating.
Home.
I don't remember the drive.
My mind is a fog of dread and humiliation.
I follow his sleek, black sports car up the Pacific Coast Highway.
The ocean is a brilliant, mocking blue on my left.
The sun is shining.
The world is beautiful and bright and completely indifferent to the fact that my life is over.
He turns off the highway, up into the hills of Malibu.
The houses get bigger.
The gates get higher.
He pulls up to a set of massive, imposing metal gates that slide open without a sound.
We drive up a long, winding driveway.
And then I see it.
His house.
It's not a house.
It's a statement.
A marvel of glass and steel and sharp, uncompromising angles, perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.
It's stunning.
And it's the coldest-looking place I've ever seen.
I park my sensible sedan next to his weapon of a car.
He's waiting for me at the front door, which is a single, massive sheet of frosted glass.
"Welcome home," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion.
I flinch.
He pushes the door open and I step inside.
The interior is vast and open.
White walls.
Polished concrete floors.
A two-story wall of glass that looks out onto an infinity pool that seems to merge with the Pacific Ocean beyond it.
It's breathtaking.
And completely sterile.
There are no photos.
No clutter.
No books.
No sign that a human being actually lives here.
It feels like a museum.
Or a mausoleum.
"I'll give you the tour," he says, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
He shows me the kitchen, a stainless-steel monstrosity that looks like it's never seen a single cooked meal.
He shows me the living room, dominated by a huge, white sectional sofa and a fireplace that has no chimney.
He leads me up a floating glass staircase.
"This is my wing," he says, gesturing down a long hallway. "Office, gym, bedroom."
He turns the other way.
"And this is yours."
He opens a door at the end of the hall.
The guest suite.
It's beautiful, of course.
A minimalist bed that looks like it's floating.
Another wall of glass with a view that probably costs more than my entire education.
A bathroom the size of my first apartment.
It's a luxurious, five-star prison cell.
"Separate living quarters," he says, quoting our contract. "As agreed."
I just nod, my throat too tight to speak.
I drop my overnight bag on the floor. It looks small and pathetic in the huge, empty room.
"Make yourself at home," he says, but the words are hollow.
This isn't a home.
I already know that.
He leaves me alone, disappearing into his wing to take a business call.
I'm left to wander the silent, empty monument he calls a house.
I run my hand along a cool marble countertop.
I stare at a large, abstract painting on the wall. It's all blues and grays, a swirl of controlled, beautiful sadness.
I feel a strange sense of unease.
Something is off.
The house isn't just minimalist.
It's… curated.
I walk into the dining room. A massive table that could seat twenty.
On a small side table, there's a single, silver picture frame.
It's the first personal object I've seen in the entire house.
I walk over to it.
It's a photo of Theo.
He's on a beach, laughing.
His arm is around a woman.
A beautiful woman with long, blonde hair and a smile that could light up a city.
She is looking at him with pure, unadulterated love.
And he is looking at her the same way.
It's a look I've never seen on him.
Not in my office.
Not in the Vegas footage.
Not in person.
It's real.
This is Sarah.
His dead fiancée.
I feel a cold knot form in my stomach.
I walk back into the living room, and now I see it.
That abstract painting on the wall.
The signature in the corner. S.J.
Sarah Jenkins.
I look around.
All the art. It's all the same style. The same artist.
Her.
This house isn't empty.
It's full of her.
Her paintings. Her color palette. Her ghost.
I'm not just staying in his house.
I'm staying in their house.
The one he built for her. With her.
This isn't a home.
It's a memorial.
A perfectly preserved monument to a love story that ended in tragedy.
And I am an intruder.
A trespasser in someone else's shrine.
I retreat to my room.
My prison cell.
I need to lie down.
To breathe.
To process the fact that I'm living in a mausoleum.
But the silence is too loud.
The house feels heavy with unspoken things.
After an hour, I venture out again.
The house is still quiet.
I assume Theo is still on his call.
I find myself walking down the hallway.
Toward his wing.
I don't know why.
A self-destructive impulse, maybe.
A need to understand the man whose life has just swallowed mine whole.
His bedroom door is slightly ajar.
I peek inside.
It's as sterile as the rest of the house.
A huge bed, neatly made.
Another wall of glass.
Almost no personal items.
Except…
His nightstand drawer.
It's open. Just a crack.
My heart starts to pound.
This is a boundary.
A line I should not cross.
Go back to your room, Elara.
But I can't.
I push the door open, the silence screaming at me.
I walk over to the nightstand.
I am a therapist.
I understand the psychology of personal spaces.
I understand the meaning of hidden things.
I am also a woman who has lost all control of her life, and I am looking for something, anything, to hold onto.
My hand trembles as I pull the drawer open.
Inside, there are the usual things.
A phone charger.
A book on corporate law.
A black silk sleep mask.
And a small, dark blue, velvet box.
I stop breathing.
I know what it is.
My fingers close around it. The velvet is soft and worn.
This is a terrible idea.
A violation of trust.
A breach of the flimsy contract we just signed.
I open it.
My breath catches in my throat.
Inside, nestled on a bed of white satin, is a ring.
An engagement ring.
It's not the gaudy, oversized rock he put on my finger in Vegas.
This one is different.
It's an exquisite, vintage-style ring.
An elegant, emerald-cut diamond flanked by two small sapphires.
It's tasteful.
Personal.
Understated and perfect.
It's the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.
And it's not mine.
It's hers.
It's Sarah's.
I'm standing in the bedroom he was meant to share with her, holding the ring he chose for her.
The tangible, glittering proof of a love I am now a ghost in.