Heidi POV

The first hint of grey dawn was filtering through the windows when I heard the soft click of the lock.

He was back.

I hadn't slept. I'd spent the night on the cold leather sofa in the dark, the silence of the vast apartment pressing in on me.

Easton walked in. He looked tired. In his hand, he carried a small paper bag with the familiar paw-print logo of The Gilded Paw Café.

He placed the bag on the marble coffee table. The scent of coffee and toasted almonds—once my favorite comfort—now smelled like a lie.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry about last night," he began, his voice a low, placating rumble. "Things got complicated."

He moved to embrace me. But as he drew near, a different scent hit me. Not his. A subtle, woody fragrance that clung to his cashmere sweater.

Le Labo Santal 33.

Catarina Kane's signature scent.

I recoiled as if burned. I took a sharp step back.

Easton's arms froze in mid-air. His expression shifted from contrition to confusion. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"What is it?" he asked. His voice was level, but an edge strained beneath it.

"Don't touch me," I said. Flat.

He dropped his hands. "Heidi, don't be dramatic. Catarina had a breakdown. Her family is a mess. She needed a friend."

A friend. He was calling himself her friend while wearing her perfume.

My eyes fell to the paper bag on the table. The cute little cat logo seemed to mock me. I thought of him stroking that cat, of all the times he'd sat in the car, performing his lie.

Without a word, I picked up the bag, walked into the kitchen, and dropped the entire thing into the stainless-steel trash can.

It landed with a soft, final thud.

Easton followed me, his eyes blazing. The mask of patience was gone. "What the hell is wrong with you, Heidi? I drove all the way downtown at 6 AM for that!"

I turned to face him. "I've lost my appetite."

My quiet calm seemed to unnerve him more than shouting would have. A flicker of something that looked like fear crossed his face before arrogance replaced it.

He grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight. "We are getting married in two weeks. You don't get to act like this over a misunderstanding."

I yanked my arm out of his grasp with a strength that startled us both. "A misunderstanding that smells like Le Labo and costs fifty million dollars?"

The number hung in the air between us, cold and heavy.

He froze. A flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly masked. He went on the offensive.

"You went through my phone?"

"It was on the screen, Easton. Right there for the world to see," I shot back. "Just like your lies."

He saw he couldn't bluff his way out. His patience snapped. The charming fiancé disappeared, replaced by the cold tycoon.

"Fine," he sneered, straightening his collar. "You want to be difficult? Be difficult."

He didn't offer another explanation. He simply turned, picked up his car keys from the counter, and walked to the door.

"I have a board meeting," he said, his hand on the handle. "We'll finish this conversation when you've calmed down."

The door slammed shut. The sound echoed in the empty apartment.

I stood alone in the kitchen. I looked at the trash can, at the croissant slowly soaking up spilled coffee. A violent wave of nausea churned in my stomach.

I ran to the bathroom, my hand clamped over my mouth, and retched into the toilet. Nothing came up but bitter acid. The pain in my abdomen seized me again—a sharp, twisting cramp that made me curl into a ball on the cold marble floor.

I looked up, catching my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale. My eyes were hollow.

I was done waiting for him to tell me the truth.

I was going to get it myself.