The morning air in the penthouse was thick with the residue of the previous night's resentment. Georgia had spent the early hours in her library, not writing, but watching the sunrise bleed across the skyline like a fresh bruise. When she finally emerged, the apartment was silent. Noah was likely still dead to the world, and the staff quarters were quiet.
She walked toward the marble island, her mind a chaotic loop of Noah's voice calling her hysterical. She reached for the espresso machine, but her hand stopped mid-air.
Sitting in the center of the pristine white counter was a package.
It was wrapped in heavy, cream-colored paper, tied with a silk ribbon. There was no postmark, no delivery slip, just a small, hand-calligraphed card tucked under the bow. Georgia's heart did a slow, sickening roll in her chest. She recognized that slant. She recognized the weight of the ink.
She tore the card out.
Some things are too beautiful to be rejected twice. I'll be waiting at the gala. Table 12. Don't keep me waiting, Georgia.
No signature was needed. The name Anthony screamed from the white space of the card.
With trembling fingers, Georgia pulled the ribbon. The paper fell away to reveal a garment that felt like a living thing. It was a gown of deep, visceral crimson silk, with a plunging neckline and a skirt that seemed to hold the light of a fire.
The air left her lungs.
She remembered this dress. Seven years ago, in a boutique in London, Anthony had held it up against her. He had been obsessed with the color, claiming it matched the her skin color. She had rejected it then, rejected the dress, the possessiveness, and eventually, the man. It had been her first act of defiance. And yet, here it was. The same silk. The same scent of expensive cedar and something darker.
"Miss Sterling?"
Georgia jumped, nearly knocking the gown onto the floor. Lizzy was standing in the shadows of the hallway, her expression one of polite, curious concern. She was dressed in her uniform, but her eyes were sharp, darting toward the red silk spilling across the counter.
"Is everything alright? That's a stunning piece. A gift from Mr. Noah?"
"No," Georgia snapped, her voice coming out like a rasp. She bundled the dress back into the paper, her movements frantic. "It's… it's a delivery for a photo shoot. Please, go finish the laundry, Lizzy."
Lizzy didn't move immediately. She lingered, her gaze fixed on the crimson fabric. "Table 12," she murmured, almost under her breath. "That's for the gala, isn't it? The one you you said they rescheduled?"
Georgia felt a cold spike of adrenaline. "How do you know what table I'm assigned to?"
Lizzy blinked, the mask of the huge fan sliding back into place. "Oh, I saw the itinerary on the hallway table when I was dusting. I didn't mean to pry, I just… I thought you'd look like a queen in that color."
"Go," Georgia whispered.
As Lizzy retreated, Georgia didn't feel relief, she felt hunted. Anthony was a ghost she had buried under a decade of success. He was the reason she wrote about trauma, he was the shadow in the quad. How had he found her? How had he gotten a package past the lobby security?
She looked at the dress again. It wasn't a gift, it was a leash. Anthony knew she had a boyfriend. He knew her life was a glass house. This was a challenge, a reminder that no matter how much money she made or how many books she signed, she still belonged to the darkness of her past.
By noon, Georgia was pacing the library. The red gown sat on a mannequin in the corner, a silent witness to her crumbling composure.
She tried to call Clarice, but her hand shook too much to hold the phone. If she told her publicist, it would become a security matter. It would be handled by men in suits. But this wasn't about security, it was about the psychological tether Anthony still held.
She looked at her reflection in the library's glass door. She saw the renowned author, but beneath the silk robe, she felt like the terrified student at Bradford. She could almost smell the old stone of the student union. She could hear Anthony's voice telling her that she was nothing without his brilliance to guide her.
She thought of Noah. She thought of his coldness, his accusations of her being hysterical.
If I show him this, he'll say I sent it to myself for attention, she thought bitterly. He'll say I'm writing a mystery novel in my head again.
But she couldn't stay silent. The walls were closing in, and the red dress was the final crack in the glass. She needed him to be the man he promised he was five years ago. She needed a partner, not a judge.