Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the Skyline
Back in Chicago, the executive boardroom on the sixty-fifth floor of Blackwood Enterprises was an absolute war zone.
Spread across the polished glass table were folders containing financial reports, harbor logistics, and legal documents. At the head of the table sat Ethan, his tie loosened, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. He hadn't slept more than two hours a night since returning from Florida. The stubble on his sharp jawline gave him a feral, unapproachable aura that kept his top executives shivering in their seats.
"Explain this again," Ethan demanded, his voice dangerously low. He pointed a Montblanc pen at his chief legal counsel. "Why haven't the divorce proceedings been stayed?"
The attorney, an elderly man named Arthur Vance who had served the Blackwood family for three decades, adjusted his glasses with trembling hands. "Ethan, your prenuptial agreement was entirely drafted to protect your assets. Mrs. Blackwood signed away every claim to your estate, your trusts, your real estate, and your corporate shares. She waived spousal support entirely."
"I don't give a damn about the money!" Ethan slammed his palm onto the desk, the thunderous crack echoing off the soundproof glass. Several junior partners visibly flinched. "I want the petition withdrawn!"
"We cannot force a petitioner to withdraw an uncontested filing when they seek no financial compensation," Vance explained carefully. "Under Illinois law, if she demands nothing and refuses reconciliation, the court will grant the dissolution within ninety days. She isn't asking for a penny, Ethan. She left with two suitcases of personal belongings that predate the marriage."
Ethan stood up abruptly, turning his back to the room to stare down at the sprawling city.
She isn't asking for a penny.
During their marriage, every time he had felt Claire slipping into sadness, he had tossed money at the problem. A black card with no limit. A bespoke sports car she never drove. A diamond bracelet when he cancelled their anniversary dinner to handle a turf war on the docks. He had convinced himself that she stayed because she liked the comfort, because she needed his protection, because her dying father required his wealth.
He had believed he held all the cards.
The door to the boardroom opened quietly. Vanessa Monroe stepped inside, wearing a cream cashmere coat and smelling of expensive French perfume. She carried a leather portfolio, her blonde hair falling in soft, perfect curls over her shoulders.
"Ethan, darling," she said softly, ignoring the tense stares of the executives. "You missed our lunch at the yacht club. Everyone is asking where you've been."
The room cleared out in less than thirty seconds. His executives practically scrambled for the exit, desperate to escape the impending storm.
Vanessa walked toward him, placing a manicured hand on his forearm. "Let her go, Ethan. Claire was never suited for this world anyway. She was always so provincial, so needy. Now that her father is gone, she knows she doesn't belong here. We can finally make things right between us."
Ethan looked down at her hand on his sleeve. For years, Vanessa had been the prize he thought he wanted—the woman who understood the ruthless politics of Chicago’s elite, the childhood friend who never questioned his violence or his pride.
Suddenly, her touch felt repulsive.
He pulled his arm away with deliberate, icy precision. "Get out, Vanessa."
Her smile faltered, confusion flickering in her blue eyes. "What did you say?"
"I said get out," Ethan repeated, his voice devoid of any warmth. "That night in Miami... you took that picture on purpose, didn't you? You saw my phone ringing on the table. You saw Claire’s name flashing on the screen."
Vanessa’s expression hardened, the sweet facade dropping. "She called you fifty times a week, Ethan! She was pathetic! You were with me. Why should she get to interrupt our time because her old man had a bad cough?"
Ethan’s eyes darkened into something terrifyingly lethal. He took a single step toward her, his imposing frame casting a shadow that made her stumble backward against the mahogany credenza.
"Her father died while you were posing for social media," Ethan whispered, the words dripping with raw venom. "She stood alone in a hospital basement while I was pouring your champagne."
"Ethan, I didn't know—"
"If you ever step foot in this building again," he interrupted, his voice steady, lethal, and absolute, "I will pull every loan my bank has extended to your father’s shipping firm. By Friday, the Monroe family will be bankrupt. Now take your coat and disappear."
Vanessa stared at him, tears of shock and fury spilling over her mascara, before turning and fleeing down the marble hallway.
May you like
Ethan turned back to the window, the glass reflecting a hollow, broken man. He pulled a piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket—a flight manifest to Seattle with Claire’s name on it.
"I’m coming, Claire," he murmured against the cold glass. "Even if I have to burn this whole city down to find you."
