Christy knew something was wrong long before she reached Miles' building. He hadn't answered a single text or call since morning. Miles didn't ignore her—not when his entire future was scheduled down to the minute. Not when the wedding was six weeks away. Not when every part of his identity was built on control, precision, and forward momentum. Today, nothing. Silence from a man who hated silence.
The elevator ride stretched like an omen. When she stepped into his apartment, the air hit her first—heavy, sour, soaked with the smell of alcohol and something colder. It wasn't just the scent of liquor. It was the stale, metallic quiet of a man who had tried to drown something he couldn't kill.
"Miles?" she called softly.
No reply.
