But my eyes didn’t stay on the shirt for long. My gaze drifted down, drawn by a sliver of silk catching the morning sun. Beneath the mahogany storage bench at the foot of our bed lay a champagne-colored lace camisole.

Attached to the left strap, glittering coldly against the dark floor, was a tiny blue sapphire charm.

A cold dread, heavy and absolute, coiled in my gut. I knew that camisole.

My closest friend of twelve years, Claire, had shown it to me just weeks earlier. We’d been sitting at a dimly lit corner table at Bistro Vendôme after her engagement dinner.

She’d laughed, cheeks flushed with wine and excitement, as she pulled the delicate fabric from a boutique bag and held it against her chest.

“Owen paid a ridiculous amount for this,” she’d whispered, leaning across the table with a conspiratorial grin. “I’m saving it for our honeymoon.”

Claire was supposed to be at her corporate office. Damon was supposed to be at a site inspection for his construction firm. Yet here was her honeymoon lingerie, discarded like trash on my bedroom floor.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but a strange, terrifying calm washed over my exterior. I slowly scanned the room. The en-suite door stood wide open, revealing empty space.

The hallway behind me was clear. There was only one place left.

My walk-in closet.

The heavy paneled door stood ajar, open less than an inch — but that narrow sliver of shadow was enough. As Damon babbled something incoherent about his schedule, I subtly shifted my angle.

Through the crack, I saw a hand clutching the sleeve of my cream winter coat. I recognized the distinct, vintage-cut diamond Owen had placed on Claire’s finger.