Actually, that’s a lie. My very last thought before sleep claims me is how much it would hurt if he did.

The penthouse is silent when I let myself inside. I expected to be home almost eight hours ago, but negotiations got heated, and I couldn’t step away from the table without losing all the leverage I gained.

If anyone can close a deal with sheer force of will, it’s me. Winning this one was too fucking important, and once I had the finish line in sight, I wasn’t letting anything get in my way. Although not the biggest dollar deal I’ve ever done by a long, long shot, I’ve never had one that meant more on a personal level. Preliminary agreements, including an iron-clad confidentiality agreement, were signed, and I was pretty fucking pleased with myself.

Eager to find Holly, I head for the bedroom, but it’s dark. I close in on the bed, looking for the telltale lump that should be curled up dead center, but I find nothing but a smooth comforter.

I flip on the bedside lamp; I’m not sure why exactly. It’s not like I can’t tell the room is empty, even in the dark.

“Holly?”

Nothing. I flip on every light as I move from room to room.

No Holly. She’s not here.

The clothes are here. The guitar is here. But she’s not here.

The last time I came home to find the place empty, I flipped the fuck out, thinking she left me. But that was before. The last couple of days, we’ve . . . well, we’ve figured some shit out, and what started out as a crazy whim seems like it can actually work.

I also just banked a decent chunk of money on the fact that it can actually work, not that that particular fact matters.

I finally make my way to the kitchen and turn on the lights. A lined piece of notebook paper sits in the center of the island counter.

Two words.

Just two fucking words.

Good-bye, Creighton.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I roar. “No fucking way!”

Last time I thought she left me, and I was wrong. This time, I’m not sure how I can be wrong when it’s as plain as the ink on the goddamn page. The Amex Black Card I gave her is right beside it. That sends a whole message of its own.

“Fuck me. No fucking way.” I don’t know why I’m talking to the empty room, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “She doesn’t get to leave me. I’m not fucking done with her.”

I grab my phone and find her number. I hit Send. It goes straight to voice mail.

I call over and over and over until I’m just staring at the phone and getting more and more pissed every time her voice mail picks up.

“This is Holly. You know what to do.”

I’m not sure how many times I’ve called her when I finally leave a message.

“Holly, this is your fucking husband. Where the fuck are you? And if you think you’re fucking done with me, you’re dead wrong, sweetheart. Better get ready, because I’m fucking coming for you.”

An absent thought about winning an award for the number of times I’d used variations on the word fuck floats through my brain as I hang up and call Cannon.

“Dude, the deal is inked. You better not have cold feet now,” he says rather than hello.

“She’s gone,” I say without preamble.

“Come again?”

“She’s fucking gone. Left a note that said good-bye. She’s fucking gone.”

“Shit. Maybe we can undo the deal.”

“That’s not why I’m calling. It’s only money. What I want is my fucking wife back. So go find her.”

Cannon clears his throat. “Um, she called. This afternoon, but I knew you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Unable to believe what I just heard, I still. “Please repeat yourself.”

“She called. I told her you were busy.”

“And what did she say?” I bite out each word.

“Nothing. She just . . . hung up.” In the background, I hear Cannon typing furiously. “I’ll get our guy on it. I’ll check her credit cards.”

My brain, exhausted from hours at the negotiating table playing mind games with the other side, shifts into gear again. “You’re going to have to track her personal credit cards, because she left the one I gave her.”

“Damn, man. That’s harsh. Or maybe nice? Fuck, I don’t know. At least she didn’t go out and spend a shit-ton of money and leave you with the bill.”

“Considering she left every other goddamn thing—the clothes, the shoes, the fucking guitar—I’m not surprised.” The fact that she left the guitar grates the most. It’s a giant fuck-you, if I’ve ever seen one.

The guitar is what trips my memory. Fuuuuck.

I fucked up. Her tour; she had to be there. I didn’t even think. She has no idea what I did for her . . . and she fucking left.

“I’ll call you back when I’ve got something,” Cannon says.

“No need. She’s gone back to Nashville. Get the jet online. I want to be in the air in an hour. Make sure I’ve got a car waiting on the tarmac, and text me her fucking address.”

The last part is a little humbling to add, considering I should probably know my wife’s address for her last residence. But I also didn’t care enough to ask before. Because I was more than content to have her in my bed, in my fucking penthouse, and not ask many questions about her life before me. That was apparently a big fucking mistake.

“Will do, man. Hold up—the jet is already ready to go. Captain Jim is on standby.”

Of course it fucking is. Because I forgot. I dig a finger and a thumb into my temples and close my eyes.

“Tell the captain I’ll be right there.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and head for the bedroom. All the clothes I instructed a personal shopper to pick out for Holly mock me as I fill my suitcase. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to pack for groveling, and I sure as hell haven’t ever been to a country concert, but I’m fresh out of flannel shirts and cowboy boots. So I toss in some jeans, T-shirts, a few suits—because you never know when you might need one—and all the rest of my shit.

I’m out the door in less than ten minutes. I’m going to find my wife.

In Nashville, dawn is still a couple of hours away when I park the rented Mercedes SL65 AMG at the curb of an apartment building that has seen better days.