Chapter 5

The first rays of morning sunlight pierced the mist over Manhattan like a sharp scalpel, ruthlessly slicing open the silence of the penthouse at 740 Park Avenue.

Alexander Hamilton was awakened by a headache. He groaned and rolled over, his palm meeting the cold, coarse texture of the Persian rug rather than warm sheets.

Memories replayed slowly, like a fragmented film reel.

The victory party. Scarlett's red dress. The taxi. The empty home. The ten-carat diamond ring abandoned beside the cold steak.

He snapped his eyes open and sat up from the rug. The apartment was terrifyingly quiet, save for the faint hum of the central air conditioning.

"Vivian?" he called out tentatively, his voice hoarse and unpleasant.

There was no response.

Alexander rubbed his throbbing temples and pushed himself up to stand. He glanced at the antique wall clock: seven-thirty. Usually, by this time, Vivian would have finished her yoga and would be in the kitchen preparing his black coffee and poached eggs. The air should have been filled with the aroma of baking bread, not this suffocating, stale smell of air freshener.

He walked into the kitchen; the coffee machine was cold. The counter was as clean as a showroom, devoid of any signs of life.

an absurd anger began to accumulate in his chest.

Running away from home? The day after he had just secured the biggest victory of his career?

"Spoiled rotten," he cursed under his breath, opening the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Evian water, downing more than half of it. The cold stream slid down his esophagus, slightly suppressing the churning in his stomach.

In his view, this was merely a hysterical emotional outburst from Vivian. Such things were not uncommon among the wives of the Upper East Side. Because a husband missed an anniversary, or bought the wrong color Hermès leather, they would run off to the Four Seasons or the Mandarin Oriental for two nights, just to garner attention, waiting for their husbands to come coax them back with flowers and jewelry.

It was a game. A game he had long grown tired of but was forced to play along with.

He picked up his phone; the screen still showed no missed calls or texts. He opened his banking app to check the supplementary card's transaction history.

It was that black American Express Centurion Card—no credit limit. That was the "leash" he kept on Vivian, and his method of controlling her. As long as she was swiping the card, whether buying clothes or getting a spa treatment, he knew where she was, and he knew she was still within his control.

However, the latest item in the transaction history remained the record of her buying groceries at Whole Foods yesterday afternoon.

She hadn't spent a single cent all night.

Alexander's brow furrowed tightly. This defied logic. Without money, she couldn't move an inch in New York. Had she gone to a friend's house?

He quickly mentally scanned Vivian's social circle. Those wives who also lived on the Upper East Side, who usually gathered for afternoon tea to discuss charity gala seating arrangements and donations to private schools. If Vivian had gone to them, his phone would have been blown up by now by those women's husbands, asking in that tone of banter and sympathy how he had upset the wife.

But his phone was silent as the grave.

A faint unease struck again, clearer than last night. He thought of the ring thrown on the table. That wasn't just taken off; it was "discarded."

"Fine, Vivian. You want to play hide and seek." Alexander let out a cold laugh and turned toward the bathroom. "Let's see how long you can last."

He turned on the shower, hot water scrubbing his body. He was Alexander Hamilton; he was a winner on Wall Street. There was no problem he couldn't solve, and if there was, it was only because he hadn't spent enough money yet.

Twenty minutes later, he changed into a bespoke dark gray suit and tied a deep blue silk tie. Looking at the man in the mirror who had returned to his elite appearance, his confidence returned somewhat.

He dialed Scarlett's number.

"Good morning, Boss." Scarlett's voice carried the laziness of having just woken up and a hint of suggestiveness. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"Order me a bouquet of flowers. Ecuadorian roses, the biggest kind, ninety-nine stems," Alexander ordered coldly as he put on his wristwatch. "And contact the manager at Van Cleef & Arpels. I want to see their latest high jewelry catalog. Only the most expensive."

There was a second of silence on the other end, followed by Scarlett's professional voice, the suggestiveness from earlier completely gone: "Understood. Send them to the house?"

"No. Send them to... actually, send them to the office first." Alexander didn't want the flowers to be rejected at the door.

Hanging up the phone, he took one last look at the empty apartment.

"You'll be back," he said to the air, as if delivering a unilateral verdict. "You can't leave this place, Vivian. You can't survive without this life."

He picked up his briefcase and strode out the door. The moment the elevator doors closed, he remained convinced that this was just a minor disturbance that needed to be smoothed over with money.