It felt as if the house itself were holding its breath.
“Claire?” he called.
His voice echoed through the halls.
No answer.
He removed his jacket and tossed it over a chair in the foyer. An uncomfortable feeling slowly crept into his chest. Had she gone out?
And why did the silence feel so heavy?
He walked toward the kitchen. Then toward Claire’s study.
Empty.
Everything was perfectly arranged, untouched.
Then he heard it.
A quiet murmur.
Two voices, low and cautious, as if the speakers didn’t want to be overheard.
One voice was unmistakably Claire’s.
But her tone was different—tight, urgent.
The other voice belonged to a man.
Michael’s heartbeat, which usually carried the calm confidence of a man used to control, suddenly pounded wildly.
He moved carefully down the hallway. Every step on the marble floor sounded louder than it should.
The living room door was slightly open.
Through the gap, he could see the edge of the silk sofa they had chosen together years earlier in Milan.
His hands felt cold. Sweat formed on his forehead.
Slowly, he pushed the door open.
The faint creak sounded thunderous in the silence.
What he saw stopped him completely.