Chapter 2 - The Envelope on the Mahogany Desk
Back in Manhattan, the afterparty at the penthouse was just beginning. It was two o'clock in the morning when the private elevator doors opened into the glass-walled foyer of the three-story penthouse on 57th Street. Andrew Weston stepped out, laughing loudly, his tuxedo jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder. Lila Summers swayed behind him, her cheeks flushed with vintage champagne, her strappy crimson heels clutched in one hand.
""God, did you see the look on Victoria Davenport’s face when you kissed me?"" Lila giggled, falling into Andrew’s side and draping her arms around his neck. ""She looked like she swallowed a diamond. The entire charity board was staring at us, Drew. Tomorrow morning, Page Six won't have room for anyone else.""
""Let them look,"" Andrew sneered, planting a messy kiss on Lila’s bare collarbone. ""I run this city's real estate board. The banks don't give a damn about my personal life as long as the ROI is thirty percent. Besides, Emma needed to learn her place. She walks around looking like an ungrateful nun while I pay for everything. She’ll sleep it off in the guest room, cry into her pillow, and by tomorrow afternoon she’ll be cooking dinner and acting sweet again. She has nowhere else to go. Her father makes less in a year than I pay in property taxes.""
Andrew kicked open the double doors to his private study, intending to pour two glasses of twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch. But the moment his hand hit the light switch, his eyes caught something white lying squarely in the center of his antique mahogany desk. It was an unsealed manila envelope.
Lila wandered toward the wet bar, humming a pop song. ""Make mine a double, Drew! Let's celebrate our public debut.""
Andrew didn't answer. A strange, sour feeling twisted in his gut. Emma was orderly, yes, but she never entered his private sanctuary without asking. He walked over, his heavy dress shoes making dull taps against the herringbone floor. He picked up the heavy linen paper inside the folder. Across the top, in stark, unforgiving black print, read the words: SUMMONS AND COMPLAINT FOR ABSOLUTE DIVORCE AND IRREVOCABLE DISSOLUTION OF ASSETS.
At the bottom of the page, Emma’s signature was penned in clean, deliberate cursive, dated that very evening. Next to it was the embossed gold seal of a top-tier family law firm—one that Andrew knew required a half-million-dollar retainer just to secure a preliminary consultation.
""What is that?"" Lila asked, stepping up behind him and resting her chin on his bicep. She peered at the paper, and her smug smile vanished. ""Divorce? Is she insane? She's pregnant! What is she going to live on, air?""
Andrew dropped the papers onto the desk. A hot surge of irritation, mixed with wounded pride, flared behind his eyes. ""She’s throwing a tantrum. She thinks she can bluff me. She thinks she’s going to extract a massive settlement before the baby comes."" He whipped out his phone and dialed Emma's number.
The automated operator answered instantly: The number you have dialed is no longer in service or has been disconnected.
He dialed her again. Disconnected.
""Check her closet,"" Andrew barked, his voice losing its breezy charm.
Lila scurried down the corridor toward the master wing. Moments later, her voice echoed back down the hall, thin and confused. ""Drew... everything is here. Her clothes, her jewelry, the diamond earrings you gave her last Christmas... even her wedding ring is sitting on the vanity table. She didn't pack a single bag.""
Andrew walked into the walk-in closet, staring at the empty spaces where his quiet, obedient wife should have been packing a suitcase. The platinum band with the five-carat emerald-cut diamond lay cold against the velvet tray. Beside it was a single note, written on hotel stationery.
May you like
You took my peace. Keep your gold. It won’t be enough to save you.
For the first time that night, the cold sweat of genuine dread trickled down the back of Andrew Weston's neck.
