Chapter 2 - The Empty Townhouse
Back on the Upper East Side, the heavy silence inside the four-story brownstone felt suffocating. Adrien Vance stood in the middle of the kitchen, his silk tie loosened, his expensive jacket thrown carelessly over a stool. On the marble island sat the half-eaten anniversary cake, sliced cleanly down the center, crumbs scattered across the white surface.
Beside the cake lay a small, transparent plastic box, empty now except for a smear of butter frosting and a single scrap of parchment that had torn off when Evelyn had pulled her note away.
Adrien rubbed his temples, a pounding headache pulsing behind his eyes. He had spent the morning dealing with calls from PR managers, corporate board members, and angry whispers from his father. "It was just a celebratory gesture," he had snapped to his publicist an hour ago. "Clare survived an abusive marriage. The jewelry was symbolic."
"Symbolic of what, Adrien?" his chief counsel, David Miller, had asked bluntly before hanging up. "Because your wife's lawyer just served us with an emergency petition for separate maintenance and asset inventory."
Martha, the head housekeeper who had served the Vance family for twenty years, walked into the kitchen carrying an empty laundry basket. Her face was set in a tight, disapproving line.
"Did she pack the safe?" Adrien asked, his voice rough and strained.
"Mrs. Vance didn't touch the safe, sir," Martha replied coldly, not meeting his eyes. "She left every diamond, every pearl, and every platinum watch you ever gave her on top of the vanity dresser. She took two sweaters, her grandmother’s wedding band, and her medical portfolio."
"Her medical portfolio?" Adrien frowned, looking up sharply. "Why would she take medical files?"
"Because unlike you, Mr. Vance, she actually pays attention to what happens inside this house," Martha said, her voice shaking with uncharacteristic insolence. "Mrs. Vance has been visiting St. Jude's Specialty Clinic every week for a month. Did you even notice she stopped drinking red wine three weeks ago? Did you notice she went to bed at eight every evening because she was too nauseous to stand?"
Adrien froze. A sudden, terrible chill ran down his spine, settling deep in his gut. "What are you talking about, Martha?"
Martha walked over to the garbage bin, retrieved a crumpled receipt that had slipped under the counter, and slammed it onto the island next to the ruined cake. It was a prescription slip from the reproductive health wing of New York Presbyterian for progesterone suppositories and prenatal vitamin complexes, dated five days prior.
Adrien stared at the slip of paper, the room spinning around him. The empty plastic box inside the cake. The handwritten note she had torn away. The quiet tears she had shed while looking at his hands.
May you like
"No..." Adrien whispered, stumbling back against the cabinet. "No, that's impossible. She would have told me."
"She was going to tell you," Martha said, turning away toward the hall. "Last night. While you were fastening diamonds around another woman's neck."
