Chapter 1 The House On Elridge Lane

The Castell estate was built to be worshipped. A modern-day palace made of Italian marble, tall arched windows, and secrets that slept between the walls. Elowen Castell stood barefoot at the edge of the master bedroom, her silk robe whispering across her thighs as the golden hour painted her in hues of honey and regret. It was quiet. Not peaceful—quiet. There was a difference. Peace filled you; silence reminded you of what was missing. She sipped from a glass of red, untouched dinner plates on the tray behind her. The kids were asleep. The help had gone. And her husband was late. Again. The sound of the front gate buzzed through the security intercom. Elowen didn’t flinch. She heard the soft hum of the Aston Martin purring up the drive, followed by the low click of expensive Italian leather shoes echoing through the foyer. Her pulse ticked up—not from excitement, but from that dull anticipation that had slowly replaced passion over the past year. The door creaked open. “Still in that robe?” came Rowan’s voice, smooth as aged bourbon. He stepped inside with all the charm of a man who knew he’d be forgiven simply because he arrived. Elowen didn’t turn. “You’re early,” she said, a hint of sarcasm laced in silk. Rowan chuckled, setting down his keys. “Cancelled the Tokyo call. I missed my wife.” “Liar.” That earned her a look. The kind that used to melt her. But tonight, it barely warmed her skin. He stepped behind her, hands slipping around her waist. “I missed this,” he whispered against her neck, pressing his lips into the curve just below her ear. Her body betrayed her. It always did. Her breath caught, eyes closing as she leaned back against him. “You mean you missed f**king me,” she said quietly. “I can miss both,” he said, his voice deepening. In a matter of seconds, she was in his arms—lifted, carried, laid out across the velvet sheets. Her robe floated to the floor like a silent surrender. He devoured her like he was starving, but she couldn’t help wondering who he imagined when he closed his eyes. They moved together in perfect rhythm, like muscle memory. She gasped his name. He didn’t say hers. When it was over, Rowan collapsed beside her, chest heaving. Elowen turned to him slowly, tracing the curve of his jaw with her eyes. “You’ve stopped kissing me after nine,” she whispered. He didn’t respond. She pulled the sheet around her, sitting up. “I found a receipt in your jacket pocket.” Rowan tensed. “What kind of receipt?” “Cartier. A bracelet. You didn’t give it to me.” “It was for a client’s wife,” he said casually, rolling over to face her. “As a thank-you.” Elowen stared at him, expression unreadable. “Since when do you buy diamond bracelets for thank-yous?” Rowan exhaled, clearly annoyed. “Since it helps close multi-million dollar deals. Don’t be dramatic, El.” She hated when he called her that—El. So short, so careless. Like everything he gave her now. “Do you still love me, Rowan?” she asked softly. Silence. He turned his back to her. And in that moment, Elowen Castell knew: the man she married was slipping away… or worse, had already given himself to someone else.