Chapter 3 - The Empty Chair
Carter stood alone on the other side of the table, his chest heaving, his tie slightly crooked, looking every bit like a man who had just watched his entire life burn down to the embers. The rain continued to beat a furious tattoo against the Ritz-Carlton windows, illuminating the blurred lights of Manhattan below us like distant, indifferent stars.
"She's gone," Carter whispered, staring at the empty burgundy coat draped over Brooke's abandoned chair. "Are you happy now? You humiliated me in front of a colleague, you blew up my personal life, and for what? Spite?"
I closed the navy binder, the crisp snap of the metal rings echoing loudly in the quiet room. I picked it up and placed it neatly into my leather tote bag. Then, I reached down, picked up the small Cartier box sitting beside his champagne glass, and opened it. Inside lay a stunning diamond tennis bracelet—the anniversary gift he had bought to appease his guilt.
"Thank you for the jewelry, Carter," I said softly, sliding the bracelet out of its velvet slot and slipping it onto my left wrist, where it caught the amber light. "It'll look lovely at my lawyer's office tomorrow morning."
Carter’s eyes widened in sudden, stark terror. "You're... you're actually leaving? Tonight?"
"My bag was packed and loaded into my sister's car before I ever walked through the doors of this hotel," I answered, standing up slowly from my chair. At thirty-four weeks pregnant, movement wasn't as effortless as it used to be, but every step I took carried the weight of absolute freedom. "The locks on the penthouse have already been changed by court order as of 7:30 PM. Your key won't work anymore, Carter. Neither will your corporate credit cards."
"You can't lock me out of my own home!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "I have surgeries tomorrow morning! I have scrubs, files, my car—"
"Your car is leased through my father's corporate foundation, which means it was repossessed twenty minutes ago," I replied calmly, walking toward the door. "As for your scrubs, I had Mrs. Gable pack two weeks' worth of clothes into a duffel bag and leave them with the doorman downstairs. You can pick them up when you check out of your hotel room tonight."
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I stopped at the doorway, my hand resting on the brass handle. I turned back to look at him one last time—the man who had thought he could compartmentalize his life, who had assumed his pregnant wife would quietly accept being humiliated for the sake of his social standing.
"Goodbye, Carter," I said. "Enjoy the solitude."
