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I amble toward the woman’s voice. When I enter the study, Archer immediately catches my attention. His beautiful face takes up half the screen hanging over the mantle. With my heart thrashing in my ears, I glare at his picture on the news. I pick up the remote off Dad’s desk and turn the volume up. But even then, I can’t understand what the anchor is saying. She’s not making any sense.

“We have received confirmation. The real estate mogul Fitzwilliam Archer was found dead in his Bedford home early this morning. The owner of several boutique hotels in the city was in town for an extended stay on business. No foul play was found by local police. He’s survived by his wife Paloma Davis, the daughter of our state senator Maurice Davis.”

The woman moves on to report on the traffic while the ticker at the bottom of the screen flashes with Archer’s name and the news of his death.

I’m still reading his name on the screen when I feel the hardwood floors hit my knees. My head bounces off the carpet. Pain seeps through my skull and the area behind my eye. I can’t tell if I’m hurting from the fall or the news. He can’t be gone. Archer is stronger than any of this. A bullet can’t stop someone like him. He’s bigger than all of this.

After a while, I make to get up, but then I realize I have nowhere to go. Archer is dead. I curl up into a fetal position. The news cycle goes through once more, and the anchor is reporting on Archer all over again.

“Stop.” I cover my ears. I don’t want to hear it anymore.

“Get up, sweet girl.” Sole’s voice cuts through the noise. “Come on.”

She takes my hand and guides me into a sitting position. I look up at her through teary eyes. “Hunter killed him.”

“Shh.” She glances over her shoulder, then speaks softly to me. “It’s best if we never speak of it again. Do you understand?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Hunter shot him last night. And now they’re saying he died in his home. That there was no foul play. How is that possible?”

“Let’s go upstairs and get you cleaned up, okay?” Sole helps me to my feet.

“Where’s Dad?” I let her usher me upstairs to my bedroom and the en-suite bathroom.

“He left about a half hour ago after he saw the news.” She runs the hot water, testing the temperature with her hand. “He wants you to stay here until he figures out what’s going to happen with your husband’s will.”

“Archer’s will? Is Dad serious about this? I don’t even know where Archer is.” I hate the idea of him in some morgue all alone. “How can Dad be thinking about money already?” I can’t focus on Sole’s answer. I just want to be left alone.

“Do you need help with your dress?” she asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “Thanks,” I mumble.

She leaves, and I just stand there looking at nothing, too heavy to move. Within a few minutes, steam clings to the mirror and the air around me loses its cold bite. My muscles relax, but still, I can’t find the motivation to undress and shower. In the end, I simply crawl into the shower stall and sit under the warm spray.

Archer’s intense blue gaze appears in my mind’s eye. I shake my head and push the thought away. Thinking about him hurts too much. I still hear his voice in my head, but the feel of his body, his hands, his warmth—all of that is gone. The void in my chest grows as I sit there all alone. I press my hands to my center to stop the darkness from swallowing me whole. But it doesn’t help. His absence is all around me, and it hurts.

I squeeze my eyes shut and weep into my knees.

I don’t know how long I stay in the shower like that. At some point, Sole returns, washes my hair and helps me out of the black swan dress. I blink, and I’m in my bed under the covers. A tray of food appears in front of me. It flashes and flickers before my eyes, and then, it’s gone. I have a vague sense of time. If I sit very still, the pain isn’t as bad. Smiling, I stare at the new tray to see if it changes again. It does. Over and over. The tray is there and then it’s not.

“It’s a beautiful day today.” Sole pulls the curtains back.

The light streaming from the window hurts my eyes. I turn on my side and pull the covers over my head. I can’t tell if it’s still the same day or the next.

“Your Dad came to see you this morning. He’s worried about you.” She pulls the covers off me.

I don’t remember Dad coming to see me. “What did he want?” I ask.

“He wants us to move back to the mansion in Bedford.” She clears her throat. “He left it to you. In his will. We can go home now.”

I appreciate that she’s careful not to mention his name. I breathe easier when I don’t think of his name. The dark street flashes in my mind, but I push it away. Going home sounds nice.

“How long have I been here?” I ask, trying to remember where I am. The beach house in the Hamptons. I know because this is the last place where I saw him, where our lips touched last. Even if I can’t feel his kiss anymore, I know it happened here.

“Oh.” She pets my hair. “Um. Two months.” I don’t miss the pity in her voice.

Two months? I lift my head to look at her. A whole two months. So that’s why I’ve gotten so good at not feeling, not thinking, why the image of his face is so faint in my head—only his voice remains, demanding and soothing at the same time.

“I want to go home,” I say.