Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN THE BALLROOM
Trevor stared up at Naomi as if she had just stepped out of a grave.
His eyes darted over her—the emerald silk of her gown, the diamond studs catching the chandelier’s light, the quiet, undeniable authority in the way she held herself. He looked down at his own stained white gloves, then back up to the woman he had abandoned for dead eight years ago.
“Naomi?” he choked out. The name sounded foreign in his mouth, raspy and dry.
Naomi didn’t gasp. She didn’t take a step back. The panic she might have felt years ago was entirely absent, replaced by a cold, impenetrable armor.
“Get up,” she said. Her voice was low, commanding, and completely devoid of affection.
Trevor scrambled to his feet, ignoring the shard of glass that nicked his knee. He looked older—much older than thirty-six. The confident, arrogant posture he used to carry was gone, hollowed out by something Naomi couldn’t name.
“I… I didn’t know,” he stammered, wiping his hands nervously on his apron. “I work for the temp agency. They just assigned me this gala tonight. I had no idea you were…”
“Running it?” Naomi finished for him. She signaled smoothly to a nearby porter, who immediately hurried over with a broom. “Step into the hallway, Trevor. You’re causing a scene.”
She turned on her heel and walked through the heavy velvet curtains leading to the service corridor, leaving him no choice but to follow.
The hallway was dim, smelling faintly of lemon polish and roasted garlic. As soon as the curtains fell shut behind them, Trevor let out a ragged breath.
“You look…” He swallowed hard. “You look incredible, Naomi. I can’t believe it. You’re… you.”
“Save it,” she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “You don’t get to look at me. You don’t get to compliment me. Why are you in Columbus? I thought you and Bianca moved to Chicago to start your perfect life.”
At the mention of Bianca’s name, a dark shadow crossed Trevor’s face. He looked at the floor.
“That ended,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”
“I don’t care,” Naomi said, crossing her arms. “Are you done? Can you finish your shift without dropping another tray, or do I need to have my event manager send you home?”
“Naomi, wait. Please.”
Trevor took a desperate half-step forward. He looked pathetic. The man who had callously told her to ‘send him the hospital bills’ was now begging for a moment of her time.
“I need to ask you something,” he said, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “When you moved out of the old apartment… when the landlord evicted you… did you take my winter coat?”
Naomi’s heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs.
She kept her face entirely blank. “Your coat?”
“My navy peacoat. It was in the closet. I forgot to pack it the night I left.” Trevor’s hands were shaking now. “Please, Naomi. Tell me you took it. Tell me you didn’t throw it away.”
“Why on earth would you care about a coat from eight years ago, Trevor? You’re working for minimum wage at a temp agency. I doubt it’s the fashion statement you’re missing.”
“It’s not the coat.” Trevor reached into his pocket. His fingers were trembling violently as he pulled out a small, yellowed piece of paper. He unfolded it with agonizing care and held it out to her.
It was a torn half of a blue pawn shop ticket.
May you like
The exact matching half to the receipt Naomi had found inside the lining of his pocket eight years ago.
“There was a key,” Trevor whispered, his eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy. “I sewed a silver key into the pocket the day before I left you. I need it, Naomi. If I don't get it back, they’re going to find me.”
