Luna held her phone so long the screen felt like a small, stubborn sun against her palm; the bezel cast thin red shadows over the sheets. The message was one line in the dark: "Mrs. Cole, your husband isn't who you think he is." Her thumb hovered. One tap and it would disappear. One tap and she could pretend she'd never seen it. She swallowed—metallic. Delete it. Wake Ethan. Tell him everything. Anything but this: sitting still and letting the words burrow deeper. The bedroom door eased open, and the phone nearly slipped from her fingers. "Can't sleep?" Ethan's voice, soft, careful not to wake her. She locked the screen and pressed the phone to her chest like a charm, heat to smother a lie. "Just thinking," she said through her teeth. He stood partly in lamplight—hair tousled, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone. Ordinary. Familiar. Safe. For a moment, that ordinariness seemed like a costume. The message's words echoed in her mind: "Your husband isn't who you think he is." "About tomorrow?" he asked. She nodded, avoiding eye contact. He sat on the bed's edge, leaving space—never crowded, never distant. "Marcus Tan can't hurt you," he said. "I won't allow it." Her knuckles clenched the sheet. "You don't know him," she whispered. "I know enough," Ethan replied, steadier than she felt. "He's rich," she snapped, panic edging her voice. "Connected—lawyers, partners, favors traded over drinks and backroom deals. Politicians. Men like him don't lose." "And I have you," he said, calm and sure, like a closed book. His stubborn smile should have been anchor, but something unfamiliar tightened in her chest. "That's enough for me," he said, as if three words could steady a house on cracked foundations. He straightened his shirt. "Try to sleep. Tomorrow will be fine. I promise." The door clicked; darkness replaced his presence. The phone's glow flickered again: Room 2408. Come alone. Don't tell Ethan. She lay on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling until dawn seeped through the curtains. Sleep didn't come. Morning arrived too fast—as if at the end of a journey she'd been driving toward for hours. She dressed as if armor mattered: navy dress, neutral heels, little makeup—she was the version who could hold it together. Inside, she felt unspooled, a seam loose. Ethan was at the stove, humming, flipping eggs. Toast popped, coffee steamed. The apartment smelled of routine—the small domestic sounds that once felt like ballast. "You're in a good mood," she forced a smile. "It's a beautiful day," he said, sliding a plate to her. "We're meeting my ex-fiancé who wants to ruin my life," she said flatly. Ethan smiled, unbothered. "Still beautiful." He ate as if nothing had shifted. She hesitated at her food. Room 2408's message echoed: go, don't go, tell him, delete the message. Which was brave? Cowardice? She couldn't tell. "Luna," his voice softened. "If something's wrong, tell me." No drama—just an offer. She almost fished out her phone, almost asked who he really was. Then a memory flashed—the clipped voice from last night: Buy them out if they refuse. I don't care what it costs. It didn't match the man in the kitchen. "I'm just nervous," she lied. Ethan watched her, unreadable; his eyes flickered—private doubt?—and he nodded. Later, before the Imperial Hotel, she remembered her childhood visits, feeling wealthy and dizzy. Today, the lobby looked stage-like: shining marble, gold leaf, chandeliers turning people slow. Ethan was at her side, hands in pockets, relaxed. A concierge looked up—his posture shifted, eyes widened then composed. She noticed. It struck like a splinter. There he was—Marcus Tan—sharp suit, menace, waiting by the elevators with bodyguards. His lacquered smile said everything. "Right on time," he said, then eyed Ethan. "And the unemployed husband, Ethan Cole?" Ethan extended a hand. "Mr. Tan." Marcus hesitated, then waved it off. "Let's go upstairs. We'll talk in my suite." "Here is fine," Luna said. "No, it isn't," Marcus insisted, moving toward the elevator. Dread cold and heavy grew in her stomach. Ethan's fingers gripped hers—certain, grounding. "It's okay," he said. The elevator rose silently. Marcus spoke on the way up: "Your father's company is failing. You own twenty percent but don't know how to run it. Creditors will tear it apart soon." "I'm handling it," she said. "You're a teacher," Marcus dismissed. "You're handling nothing." The twenty-fourth floor revealed plush carpet, tasteful art. "I'll buy your shares," Marcus said. "Fair value. A clean exit." "No," she said. He turned slowly, as if closing a gate. "Think carefully." "I have," she replied. His face grew stone. "Don't be foolish." Ethan intervened, calm but firm: "She's making the right choice." Marcus laughed as if amused. "And what would you know about business?" "Enough," Ethan said, low and steady. "You're unemployed." Marcus's smile sharpened. "One week," he told Luna. "After that, I'll crush the company." He left as casually as knocking down a fly. Ethan immediately opened his phone. "What are you doing?" Luna whispered. "Calling someone," he said, moving. "Who?" she pressed. He didn't answer. Into the call: "I need everything on Tan Industries. One hour. Every debt. Weaknesses." He hung up. A rising tide of shock swelled in her. Her phone buzzed: Unknown number: You came. Good. Room 2408. Alone. Cold slid down her spine.
CLIFFHANGER: Luna stood frozen in the corridor, the hotel's silence pressing against her ears as her phone vibrated in her hand. Room 2408. Alone. The words pulsed like a warning and an invitation all at once. Down the hall, the elevator doors slid shut, carrying Ethan away—steady, confident, unaware. Her chest tightened painfully. Every instinct screamed that following the message was a mistake, that secrets like this were never offered without a price. Yet turning back felt just as dangerous. If she ignored it, she would spend the rest of her life wondering what truth she had chosen not to see. If she went, she might uncover something that would tear apart the fragile safety she had built with Ethan. The memory of his calm voice, his promise that Marcus could not hurt her, clashed violently with the clipped authority she had heard on his phone, the power he had never admitted to having. Luna took a slow step forward, then another, her heels muted by thick carpet as the room numbers climbed. Each step felt like crossing a line she could never uncross. By the time she stopped outside Room 2408, her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She raised her trembling hand to knock, knowing that whatever waited behind that door would change everything—and there would be no way back once it opened.