Chapter 8: Shadows in the Gray Hour (Part 1)

POV: Evelyn Reeve

4:00 a.m.

The Tribeca penthouse was a tomb of glass, where even the shadows felt expensive. Aside from a single dim lamp in the corner of the living room casting a jagged sliver of light across the floor, the world was charcoal-gray.

I lay on my side, my hazel eyes half-open, staring at nothing. The only sound was the low, persistent hum of the climate control—a sterile, mechanical breath that made the silence feel heavier. I’d tried to sleep. God, I’d tried. But my mind was a crowded room, filled with things I wasn't supposed to know.

Then, the faint click of the front door.

Soft, practiced footsteps moved through the foyer. I adjusted my breathing, forcing it into a slow, rhythmic lie. I shut my eyes tight, bracing myself. Through the thin veil of my lashes, I saw Archer’s silhouette. He moved like a ghost, closing the door without a sound, heading toward the master suite.

He stripped, the rustle of his clothes hitting the hamper the only evidence of his late-night excursion. Then, the hiss of the shower from the en-suite bathroom.

I bit my lip so hard I could taste the metallic tang of blood. My chest was a storm of tremors I had to suppress.

Minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open. Archer, now in clean sleepwear, approached the bed. He pulled back the heavy duvet and slid in beside me. Within moments, his breathing turned heavy and rhythmic—the sound of a man with a clear conscience, or perhaps just a very good liar.

I stole a glance at his profile in the dark. He looked peaceful. I looked back at the shadows on the ceiling, the ache in my chest deepening until it felt like a physical weight crushing my ribs.

An hour passed in a blur of agony.

I rose slowly, making sure Archer remained under. I watched him for a few seconds—studying the man I thought I knew—before slipping into the bathroom. My reflection was a stranger. Pale, porcelain skin washed out by the vanity lights, eyes swollen enough to tell a story I wasn't ready to share.

I stood there for a long time, surveying the wreckage of my thoughts. I splashed cold water on my face until my skin felt numb, forcing my lungs to accept a steady pace of air.

I dried my face with a hand towel and stepped into the kitchen. I didn't turn on the overheads. I didn't need them. My hands moved with the mechanical precision of a machine. Artisan omelets, sourdough toast, and a carafe of freshly brewed coffee.

The sizzle of the pan and the aroma of roasted beans usually brought me comfort. Today, it just felt like a funeral rite for a dying relationship.

"What am I even doing?" I whispered to the empty kitchen.

A part of me wanted to drive to Sienna’s place, to scream until my throat was raw, to demand the truth. But logic—the cold, analytical part of my brain that made me a good finance analyst—held me back. What was the point if Archer was the one seeking her out?

By 6:00 a.m., the spread was ready. I checked the placement of the silverware, my breath hitching. This wasn't about being a perfect partner anymore; it was the desperate clinging to a routine that no longer had a soul.

Fifteen minutes later, I was showered and dressed. I’d opted for high-waisted jeans and a cream silk blouse, my hair brushed into soft, deceptive waves. I was staring at myself in the bedroom mirror, practicing a smile that didn't reach my eyes, when Archer sat up.

He rubbed his face, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning, babe."

"Morning," I replied, keeping my back to him for a heartbeat longer.

Archer’s eyes lingered on my outfit, his brow furrowing slightly. "You’re not in your work suit?"

I smoothed the hem of my blouse, hiding the tremor in my fingers. "I’m taking a personal day. Honestly, Archer, I feel like hell."

He was off the bed in an instant, crossing the room to me. He leaned in, the heat of his body radiating against mine as he pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. His eyes searched mine for a fracture.

"You have a fever?"

I shook my head, gently brushing his hand away. "No. Just... burnt out." I paused, forcing my voice to stay level. "Before you head to the office, could you drop me off at my place? I want to rest in my own bed. And... tell HR I’m out for the day. My parents are actually driving down from the Hudson Valley this morning."

Archer looked surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. "Gideon and Eleanor are coming down? Why didn't you mention it?"

"They called early this morning," I lied. The words tasted like ash.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Alright. I’ll let the team know."

He reached for my waist, intending to pull me into a morning embrace, but I stepped back, catching his wrists. The sudden movement made him freeze, his expression shifting to confusion.

"Archer?" I said, forced laughter bubbling up. "You haven't showered yet. You’re... ripe."