Chapter 4 - The Fifty-Hour Countdown
Back on the train, hour thirty-two of the journey was proving to be a psychological torture chamber—not for me, but for Kevin.
He had spent the last twenty-four hours sending increasingly frantic text messages to my phone.
Where are the pastries? Emily, answer your phone right now. This isn't funny. Where did you go? The conductor said you weren't in coach! Emily, pick up the damn phone!
None of his messages were delivered. I had blocked his number the moment the black sedan pulled away from the Milwaukee station. By hour thirty, Kevin had panicked enough to bribe the train conductor fifty dollars to check the coach cars. The conductor returned looking thoroughly annoyed, informing Kevin that no pregnant woman was standing in the vestibule, and that my ticket hadn't been scanned past Milwaukee.
Panic had finally set in. Kevin was sweating through his expensive suit jacket, pacing the narrow aisle of the first-class car while Mia watched him with growing irritation.
"What do you mean she got off the train?" Mia hissed, crossing her arms as passengers turned to stare at Kevin's frantic whispering. "How could she get off? We were in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin!"
"I don't know!" Kevin snapped, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. "She didn't have luggage, she didn't have money for a flight—she’s completely dependent on me! Where could she possibly go?"
"Maybe she passed out and was taken to a hospital," Mia suggested, though even she didn't sound convinced.
"If she’s in a hospital, why isn't anyone calling me?" Kevin gripped his hair, his face turning an ugly shade of red. For the first time in his life, the impenetrable bubble of his arrogance was starting to fracture. He realized with terrifying clarity that he had pushed too far. He had discarded his pregnant wife in the freezing cold, assuming she was a helpless victim who would take the abuse lying down.
Little did he know, his father was currently sitting in a sunlit Palm Beach mansion, staring at photographic evidence of Kevin's secret life with a face carved entirely from cold, unforgiving granite.
Arthur Rinaldi had not built a multi-billion-dollar empire by tolerating fools, and he certainly didn't tolerate men who brought shame and scandal upon the family name. Within ten minutes of opening my manila envelope, Arthur had summoned his corporate legal team, frozen every single one of Kevin’s personal bank accounts, revoked his company credit cards, and locked him out of the Rinaldi family trust fund.
Furthermore, Arthur had personally called every major business partner, investor, and social elite in the Northeast, letting it be known that Kevin Rinaldi was a reckless, deceitful fraud who no longer represented the family interests in any capacity.
By hour forty-five of the train ride, Kevin tried to purchase a snack from the dining car using his corporate credit card.
Declined.
He tried his personal debit card.
Declined.
He tried calling his bank, only for an automated voice to inform him that his account had been frozen under direct instructions from the primary account holder—Arthur Rinaldi.
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Kevin stood in the narrow corridor of the moving train, his phone clutched in his trembling hand, staring at the screen in absolute horror. The fifty-hour luxury ride that was supposed to be a celebratory holiday getaway had turned into a slow-moving execution chamber.
And he was still eighteen hours away from the station.
