otograph on his screen

appearing inside. But the message was unmistakable. The quiet, effortless power of it all. This wa

n. "She's living at 15 Central Park West. The penthouse. The o

ejected with polite regret, had burned with the shame of insufficiency for months afterward. And now Hadley-Hadley, who had sig

d it again, the five words that had kept him awake

ousy. Like the dawning recognition that he had ma

ook at him, the words that had followed him into sleep: I hope you a

s mind. He had thought she would crumble, would return, would remember what she was giving up and come

Central Park West and the power to silence newspapers with a phone ca

and let himself feel it. The jealousy. The loss. The terrible, dawning certainty t

he boredom or the late hours. He remembered the nights he'd come home late, exhausted, to find her asleep on the window seat, her sketchbook fallen from her fingers. He'd feel a flash of irritation-at the disorder, at her being out of

quired. He had never asked about the sketches. Never wondered what she drew in those stolen hours, what world

ich he still held clutched in his hand. "

deals, that had graced magazine covers, that had been called the most eligible bache

she now?

he interview's been go

d h

ust be at his meeting.

er the implications or the consequences or the sheer insanity of what he was about to

oming

ir

the conference room where he had closed deals worth billions, past the life he had bu

. Need to what? Apologize? Explain? Beg her to come back, to forget the

ction multiply in the mirrored walls. A man in a six-thousand-dollar suit, with a two-hundred-dollar h

him across Manhattan in a blur of red and silver. He didn't think about what he would say. Didn't plan his approach, his argument, hi

its cast-iron facade. He saw Alex's sedan, parked across

door was locked-of course it was locked, this was a design studio, not a retail store-but he could see through

ere sh

nize, holding a portfolio that trembled slightly in her hands. She looked profess

the woman at the reception desk looked up, startled, and began moving towar

face transforming from professional composu

e muffled. "I need to speak with Hadley.

. He didn't care. He needed to get to Hadley before her new protector retu

f the conference room and toward the front door. She was coming to him. A surge

reating a barrier between him and her new life. She stood before him, her spine straigh

ing. Like it was just a sound, a label, a wor

eleven days, with her ill-fitting professional clothes and her steady gaze and the ring on her finger that he

possibly say that would undo what he had done, that would bridg

ly. "This man-this Roy-he's not what he seems. I can't find any rec

ithout the fear or gratitude he had expected. "What c

d never had an answer for why Hadley mattered, why she h

hich was worse than anger would have been. "There's no

r hand on the door

be rough, but his fingers closed around her wrist with the force of his

p at his face. Her expression didn't change, but a

til you

id, l

hreatened, cut through the tension. "I b

moved with a silent speed that was unnerving. He wasn't looking at Blair's hand on Hadley's wrist. He was looking