“We both know that’s a damn lie.”

  “You must be confusing me with someone else then.” I play a new hand of deceit, unwilling to fold easily. “I don’t know your name, and you definitely don’t know mine. Besides, I come across a lot of strangers in my day-to-day life.”

  “Oh?” His lips curve into a smirk. “Well, I don’t. And seeing as though this is my second time coming face to face with you in a place where you don’t belong, I can assure you that this is the very definition of stalking.”

  “No, it’s not that.” I don’t bother selling my ignorance anymore. The look in his eyes confirms he’ll never buy it. “I honestly didn’t think that you saw my face the other night.”

  “I did.” His gaze travels to my lips. “It’s been quite hard to forget.”

  Silence.

  He takes a small step forward, and I take a small step back.

  He places his hands against the wall above my head—trapping me in place—demanding that I give him more answers.

  A banging noise sounds at the door, immediately saving me, and he looks away.

  “I know you’re in here, Miss!” The security guard barges into the room. “You’re not allowed to be up here, and I want your badge.”

  He stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of Mister R.

  “I am—I am so sorry, sir.” His face pales, and he swallows. “I didn’t know you were in here. I was just, I thought—”

  He rushes out of the room without finishing his sentence, and Mister R returns his attention to me.

  “Now, where were we?” His question is rhetorical. “Oh, yes. I believe you were about to explain why you chased me down the highway the other night or why you’re at this party uninvited. You can pick which one to address first.”

  “I don’t have a reason for the former.”

  “Then give me one for the latter.”

  Don’t answer that… “Tonight is just a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence.” He tests the word on his tongue, enunciating every syllable, saying nothing further.

  We stare at each other for several minutes, letting the distant strings from the orchestra serve as the only sound between us.

  I can tell that he knows the notes and flow of this concerto as well as I do; the way his fingers tap the bricks at the fermata, the way they strum for every crescendo, reveal that he’s spent his fair share of time in the world of music, too.

  In the middle of the encore, I shut my eyes and picture him pulling me onto the dance floor, twirling me around for every guest—especially Nate—to see.

  My eyes flutter open when the director abruptly exchanges the song for the waltz, and I realize that Mister R’s gaze on me hasn’t wavered in the slightest.

  “I, uh…” I clear my throat. “I think I need to go now.”

  “I think so, too.” He gives me one last lethal glance before picking up my sunglasses and walking over to the door. He holds it open, silently commanding me to leave.

  I follow his order and make my way down the hall and to the elevator bank that’s for the invited guests.

  Stepping into the car, I punch the button for the bottom level, but nothing happens.

  The doors don’t close. The buttons don’t light.

  I hit the bottom level button again.

  Nothing.

  Desperate to escape his deep blue gaze, to prevent myself from falling into another forbidden fantasy, I hit all the buttons, but the results are the same.

  Mister R watches me in amusement, a faint smile on his lips.

  “Is this one broken?” I ask. “Should I move to another?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps forward and gently grabs the collar of my borrowed chef’s coat. Slowly pushing the jacket off my shoulders, he watches my reaction until it’s completely in his possession.

  The chef’s beret catches his eye next, and he takes his time pulling it off me, too.

  Then he pulls a keycard from his pocket and swipes it against the outer panel.

  All the interior buttons flash bright green.

  “This better be our last ‘coincidence,’” he says, smirking as the doors close. “Or else I’ll have to handle the next one myself.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “It’s more like a guarantee.” He pauses. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Autumn…”

  End of Episode 4

  Episode 5

  Autumn

  After the party

  Waves of blue and white lights are flashing in my rearview mirror, casting an aura against the darkness. They’re a stark contrast to the series of stoplights I’ve sped through while wishing my time with Mister R never came to an end.

  “This better be our last coincidence…”

  I’ve mentally rewound and replayed every second of the night, stopping and pausing at the moments when he looked deeply into my eyes to speak, when he uttered my name.

  How did he even know it?

  I’ve never felt this drawn to a man at first or second sight before, never felt utterly compelled to follow him wherever he wanted to lead, but I’ve read enough love stories to know that this is a dangerous plot. The twists and turns are potentially infinite, and the hero is already too much of an enigma.

  With Nate, the initial allure of ‘us’ was in our rebellion. With Mister R, the allure isn’t worthy of a metaphor. It’s an indisputable fact.

  “Miss?” A police officer—a familiar police officer—suddenly taps on my window. “Miss?”

  I roll it down. “Yes?”

  “Here’s your ticket, again.” He hands me a folded sheet before returning my license. “The speed limit on this lane is forty miles an hour, and those huge red stop signs are not suggestions. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Thank you.”

  “If I pull you over for a third time within the next hour, I’m taking you straight to jail.”

  I blink. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not, so if you don’t mind—” He gestures for me to move. “Drive safe and get the hell home.”

  I force a smile and pull onto the road, driving five miles under the speed limit.

  At this pace, my thoughts can’t be reckless, and they can’t explore an alternate life with Mister R. They can only focus on Nate.

  Nate and his lies.

  Nate and his cheating.

  Nate and all the “love” of mine he’s wasted.

  With every mile I drive, the uglier my thoughts become, and the more I want to strangle him in his sleep.

  When I finally make it to our house, his car isn’t in the garage.

  Slipping into the kitchen, I pull a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. I drink straight from its rim, gulp by gulp.

  As the liquor burns its way down my throat, I glance at the clock above the oven.

  It’s an hour before midnight, and Nate will be home from the ball at any moment.

  That’s more than enough time for me to be strategic.

  I may not have heeded my mother’s initial marriage warning, but I’ve scoured my brain for every bit of advice she’s ever given me about relationships and followed the rest of them to the letter.

  “Always have an escape plan, Autumn. No matter what.”

  I carry the vodka with me into the guest bedroom.

  Pushing the closet doors open, I pull out two small duffle bags I packed months ago. Inside, there are enough clothes for a week, a couple of prepaid credit cards, and a second cell phone.

  I double-check to ensure the emergency cash is stuffed into the bottom compartment and lock them inside my car trunk.

  Heading to the dining room, I search for two-week hotel stays in the next county and anxiously watch the clock.

  I’m crossing Hiltons off my list when midnight finally strikes. At one o’clock, every Marriott in a fifty-mile radius has smacked me with an “unavailable” greeting.

  By two, I’m refreshing my screen for the umpteenth page of Airbnb options. And at three, I have a small list of options, but still no sign of Nate.

  There’s no ice cream or convenience store still open at this hour, and although I’d briefly forgotten about the potential for after-parties, he’s never come home this late.

  I pull out my phone and send him a text.

  Me: Are you still at work? Getting pretty late…

  No response.

  I can see that he’s ‘read’ my words, that he even started typing a response, but his excuse never comes through.

  I send him another message.

  Me: Nate, I can tell that you’ve read my text. Are you headed home? We need to talk ASAP.

  Nate: I’m busy, Autumn. Whatever it is, we’ll talk later. Sleep well, love you.

  What the hell? I immediately call him.

  It rings once.

  It rings twice.

  Then he hits ignore and sends me straight to voicemail.

  Seconds later, he sends me another text.

  Nate: We’ll talk later. Don’t call me again.

  I seethe as I stare at his words.

  I weigh the pros and cons of leaving via a final note on the table or waiting to say goodbye in person, but the sound of our doorbell ringing interrupts me mid-thought.

  Confused, I walk over and glance through the peephole.

  Ricky? He’s one of Nate’s assistants.

  “Um… Hey.” I open the door. “May I help you with something?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you were expecting me.” He holds up a brown bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “Pralines ’N Cream. Mr. Taylor told me to get you a super carton since he’s working after hours, so…” He avoids looking into my eyes as if he’s well aware that he’s speaking the language of bullshit.

  “Thank you very much, Ricky.” I take the bag from his hands, resisting the urge to ask him any further questions. “Drive safe on your way home.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”

  “It’s Miss Jane,” I say. “Don’t ever call me that other name again.”

  His eyes widen, and he rushes away.

  I wait until his headlights hit the street before opening the bag. Sure enough, there’s a “super carton” of ice cream and a huge pink spoon.

  Under that is the golden picture frame from Nate’s desk at work, one of us kissing on the beach a few months into our relationship. The morning after I gave him my virginity.

  A post-it note that’s taped on its edge bears his messy handwriting:

  Think of me touching you while you sleep tonight.

  Love you,

  Nate

  “Fuck you, Nate.” I toss the frame against the wall, cracking it in half.

  Disappointed with the unsatisfying way that it snapped, I step on it until the glass is completely crushed. Then I storm into our living room and stare at the honeymoon pictures that line our mantle.

  Picking up the fire poker, I swing and hit the frames one by one—shattering them to pieces as they meet the floor.

  I knock our “Mr. & Mrs. Taylor” wedding album from its high seat on the bookshelf, stomping all over its shards before taking my destruction party to the next room. Then the next.

  By the time I’ve destroyed all the photographic evidence of our “happy” memories, the sun is peeking its head through the blinds.

  And Nate still hasn’t come home.

  End of Episode 5

  Episode 6

  Autumn

  That afternoon

  I’m clearing the kitchen table to draft a new version of a “farewell, fuck you” letter when Nate suddenly walks through the garage entry door.

  Carrying a white catering bag from O’Malley’s, he smiles at me as if he’s just won the lottery.

  “This will never count as a formal dinner reservation,” he says, “but I hope this will make up for your birthday.”

  Am I in the Twilight Zone? I blink a few times, pinching myself to make sure I’m not imagining this.

  He really stayed out with the other woman all night, all day.

  Humming our wedding song to himself like a psychopath, he sets the bag on the table and ceremoniously takes out our best porcelain plates from the cabinet. The way he moves with such ease and finesse makes me remember how he held that other woman in his arms.

  How he kissed her lips and devoured her mouth in front of everyone.

  I lean back in the chair and cross my arms, waiting for him to notice the glass disaster zone in our living room, but he keeps his gaze focused on me and the catering.

  “I meant to call you earlier,” he says. “Things got busy at work, though. You know how it is.”

  “Yes. I know exactly how it is.”

  He slides me a plate of freshly-cut steak and vegetables, then he takes a seat directly across from me.

  “How was your day today?” he asks, attempting to lure me back into our usual charade. “Better yet, how long have you been writing this afternoon?”

  “Depends. How long have you been cheating on me, Nate?”

  Silence.

  He picks up a scallop and smothers it in butter. Keeping his eyes on mine, he devours it whole.

  As he picks up another, I notice that he’s wearing his wedding ring on his middle finger.

  “Nate,” I say, raising my voice, “I asked you a question.”

  “I heard it loud and clear. Can you pass the salt, please?”

  I don’t move, and he tilts his head to the side.

  “Autumn, the salt.”

  “Nate, the cheating.”

  He leans across the table and grabs the shaker. Then he lets out a long sigh. “When’s the last time you worried about paying a bill, Autumn?”

  “What does that have to do with your cheating?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” he says. “Answer my question first.”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Interesting. When’s the last time you had to worry about balancing a checkbook or wondering if you can afford to buy something with one of my credit cards?”

  “Nate—”

  “Wrong word,” he says. “The correct one is never, and that’s because I take care of everything. I’ve always taken care of everything for you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “You live in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the country and you drive a BMW without ever having to worry about filling up the gas tank, getting an oil change, or keeping the interior clean.”

  “How long have you been seeing her?” I refuse to let him steer this conversation onto an irrelevant track.

  “Nothing in your closet is less than designer-quality.” He steers it further anyway. “Nothing in this home is less than custom-made.”

  “So, you take your minor-aged girlfriend on shopping sprees whenever she gets upset with you, too? Do you ever get déjà vu?”

  Glaring at me, Nate slowly sets down his fork.

  The room is suddenly ten times smaller and a chill runs up my spine.

  He stands up and walks over to my side of the table—cupping my face in his hands.

  My flesh crawls.

  “Autumn, Autumn, Autumn,” he says, his voice flat. “Let’s get a few things clear about me and you… You have a high school diploma and you work part-time at a goddamn crafts store twice a week.”

  “I work as a highly sought-after luthier.”

  “You repair fucking instruments,” he says. “No matter what fancy term you choose to wrap it with, that’s your only contribution to society.”

  “So, is fucking other women yours?”

  “My contributions are what got us this house and this lifestyle, they’re what—” He pauses, finally looking at the living room and taking in the carnage of our memories. “Look. I’m not sure where these silly little allegations are suddenly coming from, but you need to drop them. Now.”

  “I saw you, Nate.” I glare at him. “I saw you at Odette’s damn near screwing that girl on the dance floor. There’s no need to gaslight me by saying it wasn’t you. Just admit it.”

  He doesn’t say a word.

  His expression remains stoic.

  “How old is she anyway?” I ask. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “Nineteen.” He runs his fingers through my hair at the admission, not looking guilty or ashamed in the slightest. “She just turned nineteen.”

  “Did you ever tell her that you were married?” I’m well aware of the answer, but I need to hear him say it. “Did she ever know that you were still sleeping with me?”

  “I’ve always been safe with her,” he says, as if that’s the issue. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Neither do you. I want a divorce.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, excuse me.” I knock away his hand. “It’s been a long time coming, Nate, but I’m filing for a divorce. Tomorrow.”

  “With what money, Autumn?” He looks highly amused. “Any half-decent lawyer in this town will laugh you out of the parking lot once you question their retainer fees. You know, thinking that things in life are this easy is probably why you couldn’t make it in college.”

  I resist the urge to jump out of my seat and claw out his eyeballs.

  “The truth is, with your value and lack of earning potential, I’m the best guy you’ll ever have, the best you’ll ever get.” He has the audacity to smile. “And if I were you, I would enjoy your cushy life as a high-ranking executive’s wife and show your husband a bit more appreciation. You can start by staying in your lane and not asking any more questions.”

  “I need to go for a drive.” I stand to my feet.

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go after we finish eating.” The look in his eyes sends another chill through my body. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive for a while. The brakes on my BMW that I bought for you sounded squeaky the other day.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “They did,” he says. “Ricky is currently on his way to take it the dealership so they can look at it for us.”

  For you.

  As if on cue, the sound of the garage door opening cuts between us.

  “Don’t worry.” He shrugs. “I took out your two little duffle bags when I came home. They’re in the laundry room waiting to be unpacked.”