---- Chapter 18 The flight back to New York was an agonizing torment. Every face in the crowd was Kelsey's. Every soft laugh was hers. He was a man haunted. He burst into their penthouse, the silence of the place a deafening roar. "Kelsey?" he called out, his voice echoing in the empty space. The apartment was pristine, sterile. But it was empty of her. Her scent was gone. Her favorite books were gone from the shelves. Her art supplies, which had always cluttered a corner of the living room, had vanished. He sank onto the sofa, the enormity of his loss crashing down on him. She was gone. Really, truly gone. The next few weeks were a blur of desperate, frantic searching. He went to her gallery; she had resigned a month ago. He went to her favorite cafes, her favorite museums; no one had seen her. He flew to her parents' home in Connecticut, only to find the house sold, a new family living there. She had erased herself completely, with the efficiency and ruthlessness of a professional spy. 1 His friends tried to reason with him. They gathered at his apartment, their faces etched with concern. ---- "Maybe it's for the best, man," Mark said gently. "You guys... it was getting toxic." "What about Aria?" another friend asked, trying to change the subject Bennett exploded. He grabbed the man by the collar, his face a mask of pure rage. "If you ever say that name in my presence again," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl, "| will personally throw you off this balcony." The friend stared at him, terrified. The room fell silent. Bennett spent his nights alone, wandering the vast, empty apartment like a ghost. He would stand in her closet, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of her perfume on a forgotten scarf. He would stare at the single photo of her he had left, a candid shot from years ago, her face full of a light he had single-handedly extinguished. He couldn't sleep. When he did, he dreamed of her. He dreamed of the party, of her lying on the floor, bleeding, while he ran to another woman. He dreamed of the museum, of the hatred in his own eyes as he accused her of something monstrous. He would wake up, his heart pounding, the sheets soaked with sweat, the reality of her absence a fresh wound every morning He was drowning in regret. He remembered all the small, kind things she used to do. The way she would leave a cup of coffee on his nightstand every morning. The way she would ---- listen for hours as he vented about work. The way her hand always found his in a crowded room. He had taken it all for granted. He had taken her for granted. He had been given a rare, precious gift, and he had thrown it away for a cheap, glittering fake. One night, sitting alone in the dark, he broke. A sound, raw and animalistic, tore from his throat. It was a sob, a sound of such profound, gut-wrenching grief that it barely sounded human. "Kelsey," he choked out, the name a prayer to an empty room. "I'm so sorry. Please... come back."