Chapter 4: Six Days, Twenty-Three Hours

Wednesday morning arrived with the familiar weight of routine, but Liam felt different as he moved through the motions of his daily life. Coffee at 6:15, shower at 6:30, tie knotted with practiced precision while Sarah rushed through her own morning ritual. Everything the same as always, except for the electricity humming beneath his skin—a constant reminder of yesterday's encounter in the alley.

Twenty-four hours since he'd held Chloe against that brick wall. One hundred and forty-three hours until he could do it again.

The countdown had become a living thing in his mind, marking time with the precision of a metronome. He found himself checking his phone constantly, not for messages—they'd never exchanged numbers, never acknowledged each other's existence outside that hidden alcove—but simply to watch the minutes tick by.

"You're distracted," Sarah observed over breakfast, her own attention split between her yogurt parfait and her iPad. "Everything okay?"

The irony of the question wasn't lost on him. When was the last time Sarah had asked about his wellbeing with genuine concern rather than reflexive politeness? When was the last time either of them had looked up from their devices long enough to have a real conversation?

"Just thinking about the Morrison project," he lied smoothly. "The client wants to move up the deadline."

Sarah nodded without looking up from her screen. "Well, don't let them walk all over you. Boundaries are important in business."

Boundaries. The word stuck in his throat. He was living proof of how quickly boundaries could crumble when you discovered something worth crossing them for.

At work, Liam threw himself into blueprints and building codes with unusual intensity, desperate for distraction from the images that kept flashing through his mind. Chloe's face in the moment before she came. The way her breath had caught when he'd touched her. The soft sound she'd made against his shoulder that had nearly driven him over the edge.

But even the most complex architectural challenges couldn't quiet the restless energy coursing through him. He found himself sketching mindlessly in the margins of his notes—curved lines that reminded him of the arch of her back, geometric patterns that echoed the rhythm they'd found together against that brick wall.

"Earth to Liam." His business partner, David, appeared in his office doorway with a concerned expression. "You've been staring at that wall for ten minutes."

Liam blinked, refocusing on the present. "Sorry. Lost in thought."

"About the Henderson residential project? Because I have some ideas about the roofline that might solve the drainage issues."

They spent the next hour discussing architectural details, but even as Liam nodded and made appropriate responses, part of his mind was calculating. One hundred and thirty-seven hours. One hundred and thirty-six. One hundred and thirty-five.

The obsession was getting worse.

Thursday blurred past in a haze of meetings and phone calls, each completed task bringing him incrementally closer to Tuesday. He caught himself driving past the dance studio on his way home from work, slowing as he passed the large front window where he'd first seen Chloe moving with fluid grace.

The advanced class was in session, and there she was—hair pulled back in that low bun, body moving with the same unconscious elegance that had first caught his attention. Even from the street, even through glass and distance, the sight of her made his pulse quicken.

A car honked behind him, and Liam realized he'd been sitting at a green light, lost in watching her teach. He drove home with shaking hands, the near-miss feeling like a warning he chose to ignore.

Friday brought a partners' meeting that should have demanded his full attention, but Liam found himself doodling again—abstract shapes that somehow always resolved into the curve of a woman's hip, the line of a graceful neck. David shot him questioning looks across the conference table, but Liam managed to contribute enough to the discussion to avoid suspicion.

Ninety-six hours. Ninety-five. Ninety-four.

Saturday was Emma's turn to monopolize his attention, and for a few blessed hours, the countdown quieted. They spent the morning at the farmer's market, Emma chattering excitedly about her upcoming ballet recital while they selected vegetables for Sarah's prescribed healthy dinner menu.

"Miss Chloe says I'm getting really good at my turns," Emma said, spinning in place between the organic tomato stand and the artisanal bread booth. "She says if I keep practicing, I might be ready for the solo audition."

The mention of Chloe's name hit Liam like a physical blow. He steadied himself against a display of summer squash, fighting the wave of desire that crashed over him at the simple sound of her name on his daughter's innocent lips.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart. You've been working very hard."

"She's the best teacher ever. All the girls love her because she actually listens to us, you know? And she shows us the moves herself instead of just talking about them."

More pieces of the puzzle. Chloe was good with children. The students respected her. She demonstrated rather than merely instructed, which explained the grace he'd witnessed through the studio window.

"She sounds special," Liam managed.

"She is. I hope she never leaves."

The possessive edge in Emma's voice surprised him. His daughter had formed a genuine attachment to Chloe, saw her as more than just an instructor. The realization added another layer of complication to an already impossible situation.

What would happen if their Tuesday arrangement was discovered? What would it do to Emma to lose a teacher she clearly adored? What would it do to his daughter to learn that her father had been—

Liam shut down that line of thinking before it could fully form.

Saturday night brought dinner guests—another couple from Sarah's work and their perfectly behaved children who spoke in complete sentences and asked intelligent questions about architecture. Liam played his part as the charming host, making conversation about sustainable building practices while his mind wandered to brick alleys and stolen moments.

"Liam's working on a fascinating residential project," Sarah was saying. "Tell them about the Henderson house."

He launched into a description of the challenges they'd faced with the hillside lot, the innovative solutions they'd developed for drainage and foundation stability. The kind of technical discussion he usually enjoyed, but tonight the words felt hollow.

Seventy-one hours. Seventy. Sixty-nine.

Sunday arrived with its own set of obligations—brunch at Sarah's parents' house, where they sat in the formal dining room and discussed Emma's academic progress over eggs Benedict and fresh fruit salad. Sarah's mother, Patricia, held court from the head of the table, dispensing advice about child-rearing and marriage with the authority of someone who'd never doubted her own choices.

"Marriage is about commitment," Patricia was saying, her gaze sweeping between Liam and Sarah with pointed meaning. "It's not about passion or excitement. Those things fade. What matters is building something stable together."

Sarah nodded in agreement, but Liam found himself studying his wife's face. Did she really believe that? Had she accepted that their marriage was destined to be nothing more than stable and functional? When had they both given up on the possibility of more?

The conversation moved on to Emma's upcoming recital, and Liam forced himself to pay attention as his daughter described her costume and the piece she'd be performing. But even as he smiled and offered encouragement, part of his mind was still calculating.

Forty-seven hours. Forty-six. Forty-five.

Monday morning brought an unexpected wrinkle. Sarah appeared in the kitchen dressed for work but carrying her laptop bag and an overnight case.

"I forgot to mention—I have to fly to Chicago today for the Morrison Industries pitch. I'll be back Wednesday morning."

Liam looked up from his coffee, startled by this deviation from their usual routine. "When did this come up?"

"Last week. I thought I told you." Sarah was already checking her phone, attention divided between their conversation and her email. "The flight leaves at noon, so I need to head to the office first to grab the presentation materials."

She hadn't told him. Liam was certain of that, but he'd learned not to argue with Sarah's version of events. Her work demanded constant travel and last-minute changes, and she'd grown increasingly casual about keeping him informed.

"What about Emma's pickup tomorrow?"

"You'll have to handle it. She has ballet, remember?"

Remember. As if Tuesday ballet was just another item on their shared calendar instead of the focal point of his entire week.

"Of course," he said.

Sarah kissed his cheek with distracted affection, already mentally in Chicago. "Love you. See you Wednesday."

And then she was gone, leaving Liam alone with his coffee and the sudden realization that tomorrow would unfold without the usual constraints of his marriage. No need to account for his time after Emma's pickup. No risk of coming home to suspicious questions about why he seemed different, distracted, alive.

Twenty-nine hours. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven.

The countdown accelerated.

Monday at work passed in a blur of anticipation. Liam found himself unable to concentrate on even the simplest tasks, his mind spinning with possibilities. What if he and Chloe had more time? What if they didn't have to rush through their encounter, desperate to return to their respective lives before anyone noticed their absence?

The thought was dangerous, intoxicating, and absolutely consuming.

By Monday evening, the anticipation had reached fever pitch. Liam paced his empty house after putting Emma to bed, energy crackling through him like electricity before a storm. He tried to read, to watch television, to review project files—anything to quiet the relentless countdown in his head.

Eighteen hours. Seventeen. Sixteen.

He stood at his bedroom window, looking out at the quiet suburban street where other families lived their carefully ordered lives behind lit windows. Somewhere across town, Chloe was probably going through her own evening routine. Was she thinking about tomorrow? Did she count the hours the way he did, or was their Tuesday arrangement just a convenient release for her, nothing more?

The possibility that she might not be as consumed by this as he was sent a spike of panic through his chest. What if she decided not to come? What if she'd grown tired of their wordless encounters and simply didn't show up?

Liam gripped the window frame, forcing himself to breathe. She would come. She had to come. The alternative was unthinkable.

His phone buzzed with a text from Sarah: "Flight delayed. Probably won't get to hotel until midnight. Long day ahead tomorrow."

He typed back an appropriately sympathetic response, but inside, something dark and selfish was celebrating. Sarah's extended absence meant even more freedom tomorrow, less risk of discovery.

The guilt he should have felt was overwhelmed by anticipation.

Fifteen hours. Fourteen. Thirteen.

Liam lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the house settle around him. Tomorrow, he would drop Emma at ballet and walk to that brick alley where Chloe would be waiting. They would come together with the same desperate intensity that had marked every Tuesday for the past three months.

But something felt different about tomorrow's approaching encounter. Maybe it was Sarah's absence, or the way his obsession had been building all week, or simply the fact that he could no longer pretend this was just physical release.

Whatever happened in that alley tomorrow, Liam suspected it would change everything.

The countdown continued, relentless as a heartbeat.

Twelve hours. Eleven. Ten.

Tuesday was coming, and with it, the moment when he would have to confront what this weekly ritual had become. Not just an affair, not just an escape, but something deeper and more dangerous than he'd ever intended.

Something that felt increasingly like the only real thing in his carefully constructed life.

Nine hours. Eight. Seven.

The countdown to Tuesday had become the countdown to everything.