The Countdown Above My Fiancé

By the time we dropped Mia off, it was past nine. The snow around the lake came down harder, glazing the road with thin ice. When the Cadillac finally rolled into the underground garage beneath our penthouse, my fingers had gone numb.

Lucian killed the engine and leaned over to unfasten my seat belt. “I’m sorry, Elena. I’ll cancel the dock meeting tomorrow and book the opera house again. Just you and me. All right?”

I looked at his face, close enough to touch. He was still beautiful in that dangerous, unfair way. He still looked at me like I was the softest weakness in his ruthless world.

But the red above his head wouldn’t fade.

[198 days, 11 hours, 45 minutes.]

I opened the car door. “No. I don’t feel well. I just want to rest.”

We didn’t speak again that night. After my shower, a migraine stabbed behind my temples. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so my blood sugar crashed too.

My fingers trembled, and black spots flickered at the edge of my vision. Lucian came out from behind the bar and went still when he saw my face.

“Why are you so pale?” He helped me to the sofa. Then he brought the emergency kit, found my migraine capsules, and poured me a warm electrolyte drink.

“Take these first.” He put the pills in my palm and watched me swallow. Then he went into the kitchen, sliced honeyed lemon, and steeped a pot of hot tea.

I lay against the pillows, listening to the soft tap of glass against marble. That was the maddening thing about Lucian. He had never been cheap with me. When I was sick, he fussed over me. When someone insulted me at a family dinner, he made sure that person vanished from every guest list in Chicago by sunrise.

On paper, he was a perfect fiancé. That was why I’d let his gentle warmth numb me for seven years. Then the countdown appeared, and the paper-perfect engagement began to rot in front of me.

Lucian came in with the honey-lemon drink and set it carefully on my nightstand. “Let it cool for a minute. Don’t burn yourself.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand. “Still mad at me? I only felt sorry for her. Elena, I swear. You’re the only woman in my heart.”

I looked at him for a long second. Was I? My eyes lifted to the numbers above his head.

[198 days, 10 hours, 20 minutes.]

They hadn’t gone up by even a heartbeat. His apology, his guilt, his little attempts to make peace hadn’t earned back even one second. I slowly pulled my hand out of his. “I’m not mad.”

The private phone on his nightstand rang at that moment, slicing through the quiet bedroom. Lucian paused, then picked it up.

The screen lit, and I saw the caller ID. Mia Crane. He glanced at me.

Then he answered and put it on speaker. He always liked proving his innocence with this kind of open honesty.

“Mr. Bellandi…” Mia’s voice came through thick with tears.

“What happened?” Lucian’s voice tightened at once.

“The boiler pipe in my building burst, and the fire department cleared everyone out.” Mia was shaking so badly I could hear her teeth chatter. Wind and raised voices roared behind her.

“I had just changed into a nightdress. My wallet, ID, and key card are still upstairs. I’m hiding by the back stairwell, and I’m calling from the doorman’s desk.”

She sniffed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bellandi. I really didn’t know who else to call.”

Lucian shot to his feet. “Stay inside the lobby. Don’t go out on the street. I’m coming.”

He ended the call and reached for his holster and keys. “Elena, something happened at Mia’s building. I need to go.”

I sat against the headboard and watched him. “There’s a blizzard outside.”

“I know.”

“I almost passed out ten minutes ago.”

His hands paused on the straps of his holster. He came back to the bed and touched my cheek. “You took the medicine. Drink something warm and sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. She’s a young woman stuck in South Dock in a nightdress. You know what that neighborhood is like.”

“Wait for me at home. I’ll deal with it and come right back.” Then he strode out of the bedroom.

The penthouse door closed with a heavy, final sound. I looked at the honey-lemon drink steaming on the nightstand, then at the empty space where he had stood. The air still seemed stained with the red glow of his countdown.

[120 days, 8 hours, 15 minutes.]