Chapter 5

　　The first time I see Nathaniel Preston after leaving, it is through a window.

　　I am walking through the hospital corridor, a stack of patient charts in my arms, when I glance toward the main entrance. He is standing on the other side of the glass doors, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders rigid. He is not looking at me. He is staring at the building, at the name on the front.

　　Preston Memorial Wing.

　　His grandfather donated the money for this wing thirty years ago. Nathaniel probably never set foot in it before today. But here he is, fifteen weeks after I walked out of his mansion, standing on the sidewalk like a man who has lost something he cannot name.

　　I stop walking. My heart does not race. My hands do not shake. I feel nothing but a quiet distance, like watching a stranger through a lens.

　　But my body remembers. A flush of heat, low in my belly. The ghost of his hands on my hips. I press my thighs together and look away.

　　Marcus told me Nathaniel has been looking. Not with private investigators this time. Not with Celeste's schemes. He has been showing up to places I used to go. The café where I bought coffee. The park where I walked on Sundays. The hospital where I trained.

　　I have not been to any of those places. I have been here, in this new city, building a life that does not include him.

　　A nurse passes me and asks if I am alright. I say yes. I turn and walk back toward my office. I do not look at the glass doors again. But I feel his gaze on my back, a warmth that has no right to reach me from this distance.

　　By the time I reach my office, Nathaniel is gone.

　　I sit at my desk and pull up the patient charts I was reviewing. A man waiting for a double bypass. A woman recovering from valve replacement surgery. A child scheduled for a procedure next week. These are my priorities. Not Nathaniel Preston. Not the past I left behind.

　　But my mind drifts. I remember his hands. I remember the way they felt on my skin in the early days, before the coldness set in. The way he used to trace the line of my collarbone with his thumb, slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The way his voice would drop when he whispered my name in the dark. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory surface.

　　I remember the first time he undressed me. We were in his penthouse, the city lights glowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He unbuttoned my blouse with a patience that drove me mad. His fingers brushed my skin with each button, deliberate, teasing. When he finally slid the fabric from my shoulders, he knelt before me and pressed his mouth to my stomach. I had never felt so worshipped.

　　I open my eyes. My breath is uneven. I press my palm to my chest, feel my heartbeat. The baby moves, a flutter, as if she knows.

　　My phone buzzes. Marcus. He asks if Nathaniel found me. I say no. He says Nathaniel has been asking around the hospital administration. He says Patricia is still feeding stories to the tabloids. Celeste is planning something bigger. Marcus does not know what.

　　I tell him I do not care.

　　He says I should.

　　I hang up and return to my charts.

　　Two days later, a package arrives at my apartment. No return address. My name handwritten on the front in ink I do not recognize.

　　I open it on the kitchen counter.

　　Inside, a photograph. My wedding photo. The one that sat on Nathaniel's nightstand for three years. My face is smiling, younger, unaware of what was coming. Nathaniel's arm is around my waist. He is looking at the camera, but his expression is distant, as if he was already somewhere else.

　　I stare at his face. The sharp jaw, the full lips that I once knew so well. I remember the night that photo was taken. After the ceremony, he pulled me into the bathroom of the hotel suite. The lights were dim, the air warm with steam. He pressed me against the marble counter, his hands cupping my face, his mouth finding mine. His kiss was deep, hungry. I pulled at his tie, his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He lifted me onto the counter, spread my legs, and buried his face between my thighs. I came apart with my fingers tangled in his hair, his name a cry I could not contain.

　　I touch the photograph, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertip. A flush spreads across my chest. I pull my hand away.

　　Beneath the photograph, a note. One line.

　　You forgot this.

　　I turn the note over. Nothing else.

　　I pick up my phone and call Marcus. He says the package was not sent through normal mail. It was hand-delivered. He is checking the security cameras.

　　I ask if he thinks Nathaniel sent it.

　　Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then he says no. Nathaniel would not send a wedding photograph. He would come himself.

　　We both know who sent it.

　　I put the photograph back in the envelope. I seal it. I place it in a drawer and close it.

　　The surgery on the child is scheduled for Thursday morning. I spend the days before reviewing the case, running simulations, preparing the team. Dr. Vance watches me from the observation deck. She does not comment. She does not need to. She knows I am burying myself in work to avoid thinking about the photograph, about Nathaniel, about Celeste.

　　But at night, alone in my apartment, I find my hand drifting to my stomach.