Page 256 of The Professor's Wife

The same kind of woman. The same kind of husband. The same pull I couldn’t fight. The same path I knew wasn’t good for me.

She told me the destination was never certain.

But God, looking at that house, at the life she lived behind those perfect walls, I could feel how close I was to repeating whatever version of myself had come across her before. Like I was already halfway through a story I’d been warned about, and Daisy was the part I was always meant to find.

Or lose.

I shouldn’t have been out here. I knew that. It was barely six in the morning, the sky still marked with night, and I was following a man I had no business trailing. But the second I saw Oliver Black step out of that perfect house with a bag slung over his shoulder, something in me snapped into motion.

He drove a pricey white car, the kind with a satin finish. Lah-di-fucking-dah. I kept my distance, far enough that he wouldn’t notice, but close enough that I could track every turn he made. My pulse was a steady, sick rhythm in my throat. I told myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I just needed to know where he was going.

But the truth was simpler and uglier: I was impulsive and obsessive. I needed to know what he was up to. Needed to see behind the scenes of the handsome man she went home to.

The drive stretched on longer than I expected, with miles of empty road. Oliver didn’t speed, swerve, or look around. He just drove, never over the speed limit, never under.

Then he pulled into the parking lot of a roadside inn and pub—a brown-bricked building with a cheerful sign and a gravel lot that crunched under the tires. I eased in behind a row of cars, feeling unusually calm.

He didn’t get out.

He just sat there.

Minutes passed. Then more. Long enough that the sky began to lighten, a thin gray bleeding into the horizon. Oliver didn’t move. He didn’t touch his phone one last time like others did before they got out of their cars. He just stared straight ahead.

A chill crawled up my spine.

What the fuck is he doing?

I leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel, trying to read something—anything—in the rigid line of his shoulders. But he was unreadable. Empty. Like he’d shut himself off from the world.

Then, finally, he opened the door.

He stepped out, smoothed his shirt, and pulled out a paper bag. He walked toward the pub with the same confident stride he probably used in every room he owned.

Right before he entered the pub, he stopped at the rubbish bin and dropped the paper bag into it. I watched him disappear inside, my pulse spiking with something I couldn’t put my finger on.

I didn’t go in right away. I took my time, trying to talk myself out of doing something stupid like speaking to him. But I couldn’t help myself. Some wounded part of me wanted to understand the spell of him. If I could see what Daisy saw, maybe losing her to him would hurt less.

Go.

I didn’t linger or fight the simple voice in my head that urged me forward. I opened the door and climbed out. My eyes trailed his car as I passed it, unable to stop myself from glancing inside to see if there might be something of hers. The car appeared pristine and empty. Like it had fucking driven out of a dealership a minute ago.

I stepped inside with my guitar slung over my shoulder. I didn’t intend on playing, but it gave me a reason to be here if Oliver noticed me. A busker scoping out a new spot. Nothing more.

I spotted him immediately.

Oliver sat alone in a booth near the back. He wasn’t scrolling his phone. He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t even pretending to be occupied.

He was just… sitting, still as stone. Exactly like he had been when he was inside his car.

I took a seat at the bar, angled so I could watch him in the mirror behind the liquor bottles.

Minutes passed. Then more. The pub was quiet at this hour, just a few regulars murmuring over their food. Oliver didn’t move.

A server interrupted me, asking if I would like a drink. I declined, and off she went. I eagerly returned my attention to him and tensed when my eyes swung back to his table.

He was gone. Just like that. The booth was empty.

I scanned the room. Nothing. No movement. No white shirt. No sign he’d ever been there.