Richard Sterling felt like he was floating. The meeting hadn't just been a success; it had been a conquest. He had walked in, commanded the room, and walked out with a deal that would triple his company's valuation overnight. Kenji and his team had been eating out of his hand. He was no longer a struggling entrepreneur; he was a player. A real, bona fide player.
He and Serena had celebrated with a bottle of the most expensive champagne the lobby bar had to offer. The picture she'd posted was already racking up likes. Everyone was seeing him for what he was: a success. Serena was draped on his arm, her eyes sparkling with admiration—or what he took for admiration. It felt good. It felt right.
"You were incredible in there," she'd purred, her lips close to his ear.
"It was nothing," he'd said with a practiced shrug, though his ego was soaring. "Just the beginning."
He finally left the office tower close to eight p.m., feeling invincible. He'd texted Jane hours ago and she hadn't replied, which was slightly annoying. She was usually so prompt, so eager. He figured she was probably busy planning some elaborate, home-cooked meal to celebrate. The thought was quaint, comforting. Jane was his rock. His sweet, simple, stable rock. She kept the home fires burning so he could go out and slay dragons. It was the perfect arrangement.
He let himself into the apartment, whistling, ready to regale her with the tale of his triumph. "Honey, I'm home! And you are not going to believe—"
He stopped. The apartment was dark. And silent. A deep, unnerving silence that was entirely out of character. Jane was always here. The lights were always on, soft music was usually playing, and the scent of dinner was often in the air.
"Jane?" he called out, his voice echoing in the minimalist space. Nothing.
A prickle of irritation went through him. Had she gone out? Forgotten he was coming home? That wasn't like her. He flicked on the lights. The apartment was, as always, immaculate. Too immaculate. It felt… staged. Unlived in.
He walked through the living room and into the kitchen. No signs of cooking. He checked the bedroom. The bed was perfectly made. And then he saw it.
Sitting dead center on his silk pillow was her wedding ring.
He stared at it for a long moment, the triumphant buzz from his victory slowly being replaced by a cold, confusing fog. The ring just sat there, glinting under the recessed lighting. It wasn't thrown in anger. It was placed. Deliberately. Like a statement.
What the hell was this?
He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. It went straight to a disconnected message. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
No longer in service? What did that mean? Had she forgotten to pay the bill? No, he paid all the bills.
A wave of frustration washed over him. This was so dramatic. So childish. She was probably upset about something he'd said, or hadn't said. Maybe it was about Serena last week. She'd been quiet after that dinner. So this was her response? A grand, silent gesture? Running off and turning off her phone?
He wasn't heartbroken. He wasn't even particularly worried. He was just… annoyed. Profoundly annoyed. Tonight was supposed to be his night, a celebration of his genius, his success. And now he had to deal with this. A marital tantrum. It was an infuriating distraction.
He stalked over to her closet and threw open the doors. Her clothes were still there—the rows of simple, tasteful, boring outfits. He rummaged through her drawers. Everything seemed to be in its place. He couldn't tell if anything was missing. He didn't know her wardrobe well enough to notice. It wasn't interesting enough to pay attention to.
He tried to think. Where would she go? She didn't have any family to speak of, just that odd half-sister. She didn't really have friends, either. Just a few acquaintances from a book club he'd encouraged her to join so she'd have something to do.
He let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his hair. Fine. Let her have her little drama. She'd come crawling back in a day or two, full of apologies, and he would be magnanimous and forgive her. She couldn't survive without him. She was Jane Doe when he met her, a quiet little nobody. He had given her everything. This name. This life.
He poured himself a glass of expensive scotch, the celebratory drink now feeling more like a necessity. He stood by the window, looking out at the city he was conquering, and scowled. This was just a temporary, irritating problem. A piece of domestic administration he'd have to handle.
He'd deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, he was still the king of the world, even if his queen had temporarily misplaced herself. He took a long swallow of the scotch, the fire burning in his chest. He was Richard Sterling. And he always got what he wanted.