Chapter 2 - The Cold Exit
I walked toward the grand mahogany double doors. Every step felt heavy, the torn back of my dress exposing my spine to the cold, drafting air of the ballroom, but I kept my shoulders back and my chin high. The parting crowd looked at me not with sympathy, but with the morbid curiosity of spectators watching a car crash.
"Guards! Stop her! She hasn't been searched properly!" Eleanor screamed, waving frantically at the security detail stationed by the foyer.
Two burly men in black suits stepped forward, blocking the exit. Their massive frames towered over my pregnant silhouette.
"Step aside," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a tone so icy it made the lead guard hesitate.
"Mrs. Vance," the guard muttered uncomfortably, recognizing me despite Eleanor's histrionics. "We were instructed by Mr. Dominic to ensure—"
"Mr. Dominic doesn't own this building, and he certainly doesn't own me," I interrupted, staring him down with a gaze that brooked zero argument. "If you touch me while I am carrying his child, I will ensure your security firm is sued into bankruptcy before sunrise. Move."
Something in my expression—the utter lack of fear, the absolute iron resolve—made the guard take a half-step back. He exchanged a panicked look with his partner, then slowly lowered his arms and pulled the heavy door open.
I didn't look back. I stepped out into the crisp, biting Chicago night air, the wind catching my hair as I walked down the marble steps toward the circular drive.
My phone buzzed relentlessly in my pocket. Missed Call: Dominic. Then another. Then a text message: Vivienne, stop being dramatic. Mom is threatening to cut us out of the trust if you don't come back and apologize for the scene.
I pulled the phone from my pocket, unlocked the screen with my thumb, and tapped open our shared bank account app. With a few swift movements, I transferred fifty thousand dollars from our joint savings into a private, secure account under my maiden name—an account Dominic didn't even know existed, funded entirely by inheritance from my late grandfather, a man these snobs had dismissed as a working-class carpenter.
Then, I blocked Dominic’s number. I blocked Chloe. I blocked Eleanor.
A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The driver—a quiet, middle-aged man named Marcus whom I had quietly hired three months ago when I first started noticing suspicious document shreddings in Dominic’s home office—popped the rear door open.
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"Are you alright, Mrs. Vance?" Marcus asked, his eyes softening as he took in the torn back of my dress. He immediately grabbed a spare wool blanket from the front seat and draped it gently over my shoulders.
"I'm better than alright, Marcus," I said, sliding into the leather interior and letting out a long, steady breath. "I'm free. Take me to the loft downtown. It's time to start packing."
