Author A

CHAPTER THREE

The rain had stopped, but the city air tasted like wet pavement and exhaust.

Aria didn't go to a dingy motel. She didn't have to.

Her taxi dropped her off in front of a quiet, unassuming brick building uptown—a place where the security guard knew her only by the name *Vance*, her mother's maiden name. She paid the driver in cash, pulled her canvas bag over her shoulder, and climbed the stairs to the fourth-floor corner suite she had quietly rented six months ago.

It was her sanctuary. A place that belonged entirely to her.

Inside, the apartment smelled of old paper and fresh eucalyptus. There were no vaulted marble ceilings, no reminders of corporate boardrooms, and no lingering scent of Adrian's expensive sandalwood cologne.

She set her canvas bag on the wooden floor, unzipped it, and pulled out her laptop. Her hands were steady, but her chest felt hollow—a strange, echoing ache where her heart used to beat so frantically for him.

She plugged the laptop into the wall, bypassed her main email account—which was already flooding with a hundred and fourteen missed calls and eighty-two frantic texts from Adrian—and opened her publishing dashboard.

The screen blinked, loading the backend of a world Adrian didn't even know existed.

A bright notification banner slid down across the top of the page:

> **CONGRATULATIONS, AUTHOR A!**

> *The Weight of Glass* has officially claimed the **#1 Spot on the National Bestseller List** for three consecutive weeks.

>

Beneath it, an unread message from her literary agent flashed: *Aria, the foreign translation rights just cleared. Television producers from Los Angeles are offering a seven-figure option for the film rights. When are you stepping out from behind the pen? The world is dying to know who Author A really is.*

Aria stared at the numbers scrolling quietly on the screen.

Royalties accumulated over two years of lonely nights in a penthouse where her husband couldn't be bothered to notice her absence. Payouts transferred directly into an independent account tied to her own LLC—an account Adrian’s high-powered auditors, his financial advisors, and his own ruthless tracking systems had never once laid eyes on.

He thought he had bought her off an auction block three years ago to be his quiet, helpless ornament. He thought she was entirely dependent on his wealth, his mercy, and his permission to breathe.

She clicked *Accept* on the film option contract, securing her financial freedom for the rest of her life, and for the life of the small, quiet heartbeat tucked safely inside her leather notebook.

Then, she stood up and walked over to the mahogany desk.

Sitting right beside a stack of reference books was a hardback copy of *The Weight of Glass*.

It was Adrian’s favorite novel. Just last week, while pouring a glass of scotch in his study, he had looked across the room and told her, *"If you want to understand how the world works, Aria, read Author A. That writer possesses a depth of soul I wish I could find in real life."*

Aria picked up the book, running her thumb over the embossed title.

A bitter, quiet laugh slipped past her lips.

He had spent years praising her words, buying her hardcovers, and wishing he could find a soul like that in real life—all while treating the actual woman who wrote them like a piece of furniture left in the hallway.

She placed the book gently back down, turned toward the window, and touched the bare skin of her ring finger.

The platinum band was gone. But for the first time in three years, Aria was completely, breathtakingly free.

Back in the glass-walled penthouse, the silence was no longer peaceful. It was deafening.

Adrian stood in the center of the master bedroom, the air still smelling faintly of rain and the lavender soap Aria used.

The platinum tennis bracelet sat on the velvet vanity tray. Her clothes still hung neatly in the cedar-scented closet. Her skincare bottles were lined up in a row by the sink. Everything looked like she had just stepped out for a moment to buy groceries.

Except the canvas bag was gone.

And so was she.

Adrian’s hands were shaking as he pulled out his phone. He dialed her private number for the hundred and fifteenth time.

The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable.

"Damn it," he whispered, his voice cracking against the empty walls.

He didn't hesitate. He opened his corporate security app, pulling up the GPS tracker linked to her emergency vehicle key and her personal credit cards. If she was stranded, if she was panicking, he needed to know where she was so he could fix it. So he could throw money at whatever problem had driven her out into the rain.

The screen blinked, loading the data.

A single red dot flickered, then vanished.

Card locked.

He tapped the screen again, calling his head of private security.

"Find my wife," Adrian ordered, the ruthless CEO tone returning out of sheer panic. "She left the penthouse half an hour ago. Check the highway tolls, check the city hospitals, check every luxury hotel in the downtown district."

"Yes, Mr. Cole. Which credit card statement should I pull for the live charges?"

Adrian paused. His thumb hovered over the phone.

"All of them," he said tightly.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed with an email report from his financial team.

Adrian tore open the document, expecting to see a declined transaction at a gas station or a boutique hotel downtown.

Instead, the ledger was completely blank.

No activity. No card usage. No hospital records. No toll booth pings.

It was as if Aria Vale had simply dissolved into thin air.

Adrian stared at the empty screen, a cold, suffocating dread crawling up his throat. The woman he thought he knew—the woman who had relied on his allowance, his protection, and his world since the day he bought her off the auction block—had vanished without leaving a single digital footprint.

For the first time in his life, Adrian Cole realized something terrifying:

He had no idea who his wife actually was.