Chapter 4 - The Discovery At Aster House
At 1:15 AM, Roman Carter finally unlocked the door to our sprawling estate in the gated enclave of Oakridge. The house was dead quiet. The smell of roasted rosemary chicken had long since faded, replaced by the sterile, chilling stillness of an abandoned museum.
He stepped into the marble foyer, dusting snow off the collar of his charcoal coat, annoyed that the perimeter lights hadn't switched on automatically. He had spent three hours at the Aster House with Claire, finalizing the timeline for my impending ""breakdown."" He had told Claire that Savannah was an emotional wreck, completely docile, weeping over holiday baking while he held all the cards. He felt invincible.
""Savannah?"" Roman called out, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
No answer.
He frowned, loosening his silk tie as he walked toward the living room. ""Savannah, I told you I'd be home. There was an issue with the shipping docks downtown. It couldn't wait.""
Silence greeted him. The only illumination came from the massive Christmas tree in the center of the great room. The fairy lights twinkled rhythmically, casting long, fractured shadows across the imported hardwood floors.
Roman stepped closer to the tree, intending to turn off the power strip, when a glimmer of platinum caught his eye.
There, resting dead center on the crimson velvet tree skirt, was my diamond eternity band. Beside it lay the small white note, my neat, unmistakable handwriting facing upward.
Roman froze. He picked up the card, his jaw tightening as he read the words.
Merry Christmas, Roman. Don't worry about coming home before midnight. You don't have one anymore.
""What is this dramatic nonsense?"" he muttered aloud, his voice thick with irritation rather than panic. He tossed the card onto the coffee table and took the stairs two at a time, heading toward the master suite. ""Savannah! Stop hiding in the guest room. We are not doing this tonight!""
He shoved open the door to our bedroom. It was empty. The bed was made with military precision, the green sweater I had laid out for him still resting untouched on the duvet.
Turning sharply, he marched down the hallway and slammed open the door to the nursery.
The breath left his lungs in a sudden, violent gasp.
The room had been stripped bare. The ivory-carved crib we had imported from Italy was gone. The hand-painted dresser, the custom wardrobe, the plush toys, the rocking chair—everything had vanished. Only the bare white walls remained, along with the faint, lingering scent of lavender baby soap.
Panic, raw and cold, finally clawed at Roman’s throat. He reached for his phone, dialing my number.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service or has been disconnected.
""Damn it, Savannah!"" he roared into the empty room.
He spun on his heel and rushed toward his private study, determined to pull the surveillance feeds and check the GPS trackers installed on all family vehicles. He burst into his office, flicked on the overhead chandelier, and instantly stopped dead in his tracks.
May you like
The oil painting of his grandfather hung askew. The heavy biometric safe was wide open, yawning like an empty tomb. The aluminum hard drive was gone. And laid out in a fan across his green leather desk pad were the Zurich psychiatric forgery documents, topped with an unstamped red envelope that had one word scrawled across the front in black ink:
TERMINATED.
