Chapter 1 - The Twenty-Four Hour Eviction
The pen slipped between my fingers as I stared at the final page on the glass conference table forty stories above Manhattan. The words were brutally simple: vacate the marital residence within twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours—that was all my husband gave me to disappear from the home we had shared for five years while I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant with triplets. Ethan Mercer sat across from me in a charcoal suit, checking his watch as though ending our marriage was just another appointment running long. Rain streaked the windows behind him, turning the city into silver shadows.
“Claire, sign it,” he said, his voice devoid of any lingering warmth. “My car is downstairs. I’m already late for the airport.”
His attorney shifted awkwardly beside us. “Mrs. Mercer, perhaps we should discuss temporary accommodations—”
“No,” Ethan interrupted sharply. “We can’t.”
Five years of marriage sat between us, and he still refused to look at my swollen stomach or acknowledge the three lives we had created. Three years of excuses, broken promises, and waiting for him to become the man I married had ended with him treating me like an inconvenient piece of paperwork.
“Who is she?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
His jaw tightened. “That doesn’t matter.”
“The actress from Malibu?”
Ethan sighed, heavily irritated. “Sabrina is waiting for me in Los Angeles, so yes, I’d appreciate some efficiency.”
Something inside me went cold, shattering the last remaining illusions I held about the man I loved. I signed. My name looked crooked across the page, like pain pretending to be handwriting. Ethan stood immediately, smoothing his jacket as if nothing significant had happened.
“I left money in your personal account,” he muttered.
“The account your finance department froze yesterday?” I countered bitterly.
For half a second, he finally looked at me, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before he tucked his phone into his pocket. “You’ll land somewhere, Claire. You always do.”
And he walked out, leaving me behind in the empty room. By the time I stepped onto Park Avenue, Manhattan had vanished beneath a cold spring storm. My maternity dress was soaked within minutes, my shoes rubbed my heels raw, and every person under every expensive awning seemed trained not to notice a pregnant woman falling apart. I had one dead debit card, one frozen credit line, and a phone full of people who had called me family only because I was Ethan Mercer’s wife. Calling them now would only confirm what I already knew: I was entirely on my own.
At 10:30, I spent the last cash in my wallet on water and a prepaid charger. At 11:15, I climbed onto a downtown bus because it was warm, moving, and I desperately needed somewhere to exist. I sank into a seat beneath flickering fluorescent lights and cradled the underside of my heavy belly.
May you like
“Just get me through tonight,” I whispered into the dark.
One baby kicked sharply against my ribs, unaware of the storm raging outside and the ruin waiting for us at home.
