Chapter 25: Stephanie’s Distance
The rest of dinner passed in a hollowed-out silence. Stephanie pushed her remaining cacio e pepe around the plate, the cheese congealing into a cold, sticky mass. The vibrant energy of the restaurant now felt abrasive, the laughter at nearby tables like needles against her skin.
Veronica paid the check with a black card, her movements efficient and quiet. She didn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. She just watched Stephanie, her green eyes missing nothing—the tremble in a hand, the way Stephanie’s gaze kept darting toward the door as if expecting him to materialize again.
The town car ride back to the penthouse was a journey through a soundproofed vacuum. Stephanie stared out at the blur of lights, her reflection a pale, haunted ghost superimposed over the city. Veronica texted her driver, her security detail, instructions crisp and low. Increase perimeter watch. Note any lone male, late twenties, dark hair, European, loitering. The phone’s glow illuminated the sharp planes of her face.
Inside the penthouse, the majestic view of the city felt like a taunt. “I’m going to shower,” Stephanie murmured, her voice thin and frayed. She didn’t wait for a reply.
Veronica gave her a few minutes before following. The master bathroom was steamy, fragrant with the scent of Veronica’s sandalwood soap. Stephanie stood under the rainfall showerhead, her back to the door, her long hair plastered dark and heavy against her spine. She didn’t turn. Veronica undressed and stepped in behind her, the hot water cascading over both of them. She didn’t touch her. She just stood there, a solid, silent presence in the cloud of steam, letting the water sluice over them until it began to run cool.
They dried off with thick, absorbent towels in a silence that was its own language. Stephanie avoided her eyes, wrapping herself tightly in the terrycloth as if it were armor.
In the vast, low-lit bed, the crisp linen sheets felt cold. Veronica lay on her side, facing Stephanie’s back. She reached out, her fingers gently tracing the line of Stephanie’s shoulder. Stephanie flinched. It was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A current of rejection, sharp and clear.
“Hey,” Veronica whispered, her voice a soft rumble in the dark. “Look at me.”
Stephanie didn’t move. Veronica shifted closer, her intent clear in the quiet determination of her body. She pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of Stephanie’s neck, then another along the slope of her shoulder. Her hand slid down, over the curve of Stephanie’s hip.
Stephanie’s body went rigid. “No,” she breathed, the word barely audible. Her hand came up, not pushing, but pressing gently against Veronica’s wrist, stalling its movement. It was a request, not a fight, but it was a wall nonetheless. Then she turned away completely, presenting the unyielding line of her back once more, pulling the duvet tight around her shoulders.
Veronica went still. The air went out of her. She stayed like that for a long moment, her hand hovering in the space where Stephanie’s skin had been. Then she slowly rolled onto her back, staring up at the dark ceiling. The message was received. Understood.
When she tentatively draped an arm over Stephanie’s waist hours later, Stephanie stiffened and shifted just enough for the contact to break. They slept, or pretended to, in the vast, cold space between them.
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Veronica woke to an emptiness that was more than physical. The space beside her in the bed was cold. The penthouse was silent in the way only an empty home can be. No soft footsteps, no kettle whistling, no hum of a French-accented voice.
“Stephanie?” Her own voice echoed in the vast space.
She checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the living area. Nothing. A knot of cold dread began to tighten in her stomach. She went back to the bedroom. Stephanie’s phone was on the nightstand, its screen dark and useless. She never went anywhere without it.
Veronica dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a sweater, her movements sharp with a rising panic she refused to name. She called the front desk. “Has Ms. James left the building this morning?”
“No, Ms. Barlowe. We haven’t seen her.”
She took the elevator down and walked the blocks around her building, her eyes scanning every face, every café window. The West Village was waking up, but Stephanie was nowhere in its morning bustle. She wasn’t at the little park where they’d sometimes gotten coffee. She wasn’t browsing the shelves of the bookstore she liked.
Back in the penthouse, the silence was deafening. Veronica paced the length of the living room, the city sprawling indifferently beyond the glass. She called her office, canceling her day. She called her security team, her voice clipped. “I need you to find someone. Stephanie James. She’s missing.”
“For how long, Ms. Barlowe?”
“Since this morning. She left her phone.”
“That’s not very long for a missing persons—”
“Just find her,” Veronica snapped, ending the call.
The hours bled together. She stared at her own phone, willing it to ring with news. Every minute that ticked by felt like a confirmation of her deepest, unspoken fear. He had gotten to her. He had slipped through her defenses and taken her. The image of Antoine’s smug, possessive face swam in her vision, fueling a cold, terrifying fury.
By late afternoon, the nervous energy had crystallized into a hard, grim resolve. The fear was still there, a live wire in her chest, but it was now caged in steel. She stood at the window, watching the light fade over the East River, her reflection a tall, unyielding silhouette against the dying day.
She was the most feared lawyer in New York. She had built an empire on finding things people wanted to hide. He had invaded her city, threatened her peace, and now he had taken what was hers.
He had no idea what was coming for him.