Chapter 2 - The Cracks in the Penthouse
Back in Manhattan, the Romano penthouse was suffocating in chaotic luxury. Adrian slammed the glass tumbler onto the Italian marble kitchen island, sending amber scotch sloshing over the polished surface.
""What do you mean she vanished?"" Adrian demanded into his phone. ""She has no family left in the city, Frank. She drives a modest sedan that’s still parked in my garage! Find her credit cards. Track her passport.""
Frank, his head of private security for a decade, sounded deeply uncomfortable on the other end of the line. ""Mr. Romano... Mrs. Romano hasn't used a single credit card since she walked out this morning. Her phone signal died near midtown. And as for her accounts, she didn't touch your joint funds. She didn't even take the jewelry you bought for her anniversaries. It's all sitting in the safe in the master bedroom, along with her wedding band.""
Adrian hung up without another word, running both hands through his thick, dark hair. A sharp, burning ache flared in his lower abdomen—the familiar onset of his gastric inflammation. Instinctively, he reached toward the corner cabinet where his medicine was always laid out in neat, labeled glass vials.
The shelf was bare.
There was only a single plastic organizer left from the night before, containing pills for just six more days. No refills ordered. No doctor’s notes detailing the titration schedule. No fresh ginger infusion waiting in the refrigerator to soothe the stomach lining before the heavy steroids hit his bloodstream.
""Adrian, darling?""
A pair of slender arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Bianca stepped into the kitchen wearing one of Elena’s silk robes—a garment that looked ridiculously oversized on her petite frame. Her perfume, heavy and sweet with artificial jasmine, hit him like a physical blow. Elena never wore heavy perfume; she smelled like lavender, rain, and clean cotton.
""You're so tense, honey,"" Bianca whispered, resting her chin against his shoulder. ""Why are you letting your ex-wife stress you out like this? She’s just playing games. She wants attention. Once she realizes she can’t survive out there without your black card, she’ll come crawling back begging for a settlement.""
Adrian gently pried Bianca’s fingers off his waist. ""She didn't take any money, Bianca. She left everything.""
""Because she's proud!"" Bianca laughed, pouring herself a glass of chilled white wine from the open cellar. ""Women like her always pretend to be above the money until the rent is due. Don't worry about her. And as for this ridiculous baby claim... do you really believe her? You said yourself you two barely shared a bed the last few months. What if it isn't even yours? Or what if she's faking it just to trap you into alimony?""
Something dark and ugly twisted in Adrian's chest. He looked at Bianca—the woman whose helplessness had felt so intoxicating just a week ago, whose endless crises made him feel like a chivalrous knight. For the first time, her voice didn't sound sweet. It sounded shrill, grating, and profoundly self-absorbed.
""Elena does not lie,"" Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. ""In eight years, she has never told me a single lie.""
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""Well, you don't have to bite my head off!"" Bianca pouted, crossing her arms and blinking back theatrical tears. ""I’m just trying to protect our future, Adrian. My boutique’s rent is due next week, and the landlord is threatening eviction. You promised you’d speak to your property manager about covering the lease...""
Adrian stared at her. His stomach burned hotter, a white-hot knife twisting behind his ribs. He didn't want to fix a boutique lease. He didn't want to hear about an eviction. He wanted the quiet woman who used to hand him a warm cup of herbal tea before he even realized his throat was dry.
