Chapter 2The Gilded Leash

The next morning, I woke up with eyes swollen and dry.

Declan hadn't come home. For three years, no matter how violently we screamed at each other, he had always returned by three in the morning, sliding into the sheets, pulling my trembling body against his chest, and murmuring apologies until I fell asleep.

Last night was the first time the other side of the bed stayed cold.

I spent the morning packing. I pulled out three large cardboard boxes and began stripping the living room of everything that belonged to me.

I was in the middle of wrapping a silver-plated picture frame in bubble wrap when the electronic lock chimed.

The front door swung open. Declan stepped inside, carrying the crisp, sharp scent of autumn air and cold morning rain.

He stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes landed on the boxes scattered across the herringbone floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, his voice rough and ice-cold.

He crossed the foyer in long, measured strides, his gaze tracking like a laser toward the box in my hands.

I paused, carefully tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, willing my voice not to tremble. "Just clearing out some clutter. The living room was feeling crowded."

I avoided his eyes and reached for the glass of water on the coffee table.

Before my fingers could touch the glass, Declan was already there. He snatched the picture frame right out of my hands.

The photograph inside was from two New Year's Eves ago at an amusement park upstate. I had thrown a tantrum until he agreed to wear a pair of ridiculous, glowing plush cat ears, posing for a photo booth reel while I grinned like a victor.

"This is clutter?" he asked. His knuckles were white against the silver frame, veins standing out starkly on the back of his hand.

"It's been sitting out for two years. It collects dust," I said softly, forcing a placid, reasonable smile. "Besides, we look ridiculous in it. It's better packed away."

The crimson letters drifted past his shoulder:

[She’s finally getting the hint. Cleaning up the crime scene before the real queen arrives.]

[Smart move. If Genevieve saw her face in this apartment, Declan would’ve thrown her out by her hair anyway.]

A sharp pang lanced through my chest. Right. Genevieve arrives today. Leaving my cheap memories lying around would only offend him.

"Elena." Declan’s voice was dangerously low, vibrating with something volatile—fury, or perhaps a strange, frantic edge I couldn't quite decipher. "What is this? What are you trying to pull?"

"I’m not pulling anything," I met his eyes evenly. "I just think we both need some breathing room. Some personal boundaries."

Personal boundaries.

A month ago, if he was ten minutes late leaving his office, I would blow up his phone thirty times. Once, when his battery died during a board meeting, I drove down to Wall Street in my slippers, marched past security, and threw a brass paperweight through the frosted glass of his conference room.

He hadn't fired me or yelled. He had simply walked over, picked up my bleeding, glass-scratched hands, wrapped his bespoke coat around my shaking shoulders, and whispered against my hair: I’m sorry, baby. Don’t cry. It’s my fault. I’m right here.

Looking at that flawlessly sculpted face now, a chill settled into my bones. How much hatred had he buried beneath that tenderness? What kind of monster could pretend to love someone so completely while counting down the days until he could dispose of them?

"Personal boundaries," Declan repeated, a mocking, bitter sneer curling his lip. "Fine. Wonderful."

He tossed the silver frame back into the box. It hit the cardboard with a dull, heavy thud.

He turned toward the master walk-in closet. Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a charcoal, custom three-piece Savile Row suit, the crisp white collar framing his sharp jawline. He looked devastating, powerful, and utterly unreachable.

In the past, whenever he dressed like this, I would cling to his lapels like an anchor, sniffing his collar for foreign perfume, demanding names, threatening to take a pair of fabric shears to his ties if he looked at another woman.

Today, I remained standing quietly by the sofa. I picked up his platinum Patek Philippe from the marble tray and held it out to him with both hands.

"Safe travels," I said softly.

Declan didn't take the watch.

He stood there, perfectly motionless, staring at me with eyes so dark they looked like bottomless pits. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken violence.

"I won't be back for dinner," he said abruptly, his jaw tight. "An old friend is flying in from London this afternoon. I'm picking her up at JFK. There’s a private dinner at the Carlyle tonight."

An old friend. A private dinner.

Genevieve.

The spectral comments exploded around us:

[Here it is! The private tarmac pickup!]

[Watch the psycho blow her lid. Ten bucks says she grabs a kitchen knife.]

[She wouldn't dare. Declan would have her committed before she took two steps.]

I swallowed the metallic taste of blood where I’d bitten the inside of my cheek. I kept my smile perfectly smooth, perfectly vacant.

"Understood," I said. "Give her my best. Have a wonderful evening."

I laid the watch back down on the credenza and reached for his car keys, holding them out to him.

Declan’s chest heaved. A sharp, ragged breath tore from his throat. In a flash of motion, his hand shot out and clamped around my chin, tilting my face up so hard my vertebrae clicked.

"You really don't care?" he ground out through clenched teeth, his eyes blazing with a storm that terrified me. "Not even a little?"

"Why would I care?" I looked straight into his furious eyes, keeping my gaze as clear and empty as glass. "You're a free man, Declan."