Embarrassment flashed across his face, quickly hardening into irritation. “Claire Whitmore, you did that on purpose! Your birthday is—”
He stopped short. Clearly, he couldn’t remember the exact date. Three years of marriage, and he couldn’t recall my birthday—but he knew every one of Sophie Lane’s preferences by heart.
He tossed the phone back to me, his tone impatient. “You’re just looking for trouble. I came here to take you home, and this is the attitude I get?”
Before I could answer, his own phone rang. On the screen, two bright characters spelled “Sophie.”
“Daniel, the contract signing ceremony is about to start,” Sophie’s syrupy voice cooed through the speaker. “Mr. Whitmore and the others are here—when will you get here?”
Daniel’s tone softened instantly, dripping with sweetness. “I’ll be there soon. Be good and wait for me.”
When the call ended, he didn’t spare me a glance. Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the door. “I’m going to the ceremony. You can discharge yourself and take a cab home. We’ll talk later.”
The door closed behind him, and with it, the last flicker of warmth in my heart. Home? That place filled with false memories had long ceased to be mine.