Melissa Maxton was not a woman who panicked.
She had built a wine empire on ice-cold composure. Had survived twenty years married to Harold by never once letting him see her sweat. Had navigated the shark-infested waters of Paradise's social hierarchy with a smile sharp enough to fillet reputations and nerves forged from something colder than steel.
She did not panic.
She did not pace her bedroom at 11 PM staring at her phone like a lovesick teenager.
She did not call the same number seventeen times in two hours, each unanswered ring twisting something vicious in her chest that she refused—absolutely refused—to name.
Except tonight, apparently, she did all of those things.
He said he was checking the condo. That was four hours ago. Four bloody hours.
The evening had already been a farce before this particular brand of torment.
