Chapter 1 - The Six-Minute Knock
At exactly 10:17 PM, the steady hiss of the steam shower echoed through the frosted glass doors of the master bathroom in our Highland Park penthouse. On the velvet armchair in the living room, I sat wrapped in a champagne silk robe, holding my husband Calvin’s unlocked phone in my hands.
The notification had popped up like a drop of venom on the illuminated screen:
Stephanie: “I miss you. I want to see you.”
My heart didn’t flutter with panic. For twelve years, Stephanie had been my closest confidante. When her ex-husband abandoned her two years ago, I was the one who paid her rent for six months, sat by her bedside through panic attacks, and wiped her tears. And for the past six months, I had noticed the calculated glances across dinner tables, Calvin’s sudden "late quarterly reviews," and the subtle shift in Stephanie’s perfume whenever she dropped by our home.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the phone against the wall.
With perfectly steady thumbs, I tapped out a reply as Calvin:
“Brooke isn’t home. Come quickly.”
Then I set the phone on the coffee table beside a vase of fresh white roses, leaned back against the cushions, and waited.
Six minutes later, the private elevator chimed.
The front door unlocked with the personalized security passcode I had given Stephanie during her divorce.
The door swung open. Stephanie stepped across the threshold, dressed in a form-fitting bronze satin cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and high stiletto heels. Her blonde waves were styled to perfection, a luxury designer bag draped over her shoulder, and her signature floral perfume preceded her into the foyer. She was not a friend dropping by for a casual chat; she was a woman arriving for an illicit midnight rendezvous.
When her eyes landed on me sitting composed on the sofa, every drop of color drained from her face. Her mouth dropped open, her hand freezing on the brass door handle.
"Brooke...?" Stephanie stammered, her voice pitching into a panicked squeak. "What... what are you doing here?"
"I live here, Stephanie," I replied softly, not moving an inch.
Stephanie’s eyes darted frantically toward the bathroom. "I... I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop off the marketing files—"
"What an incredible coincidence," I murmured, picking up Calvin’s phone and pointing the glowing screen toward her. "Right after my husband told you I wasn't home."
Behind me, the shower turned off.
A moment later, the glass door clicked open. Calvin walked out into the hallway, a white towel wrapped around his waist, running a hand through his damp dark hair.
He took two steps before freezing dead in his tracks.
May you like
His eyes locked onto Stephanie standing frozen in the open doorway, then snapped to me sitting on the sofa holding his phone.
The silence that blanketed the penthouse was absolute.
