Chapter 4 - The Empty Penthouse
The penthouse on 57th Street was dead silent when Andrew Weston stumbled through the double mahogany doors at three in the morning. His tuxedo jacket was slung over one shoulder, his collar undone, smelling of single-malt scotch and Lila’s heavy, cloying perfume.
Lila leaned against his arm, her giggles echoing off the limestone foyer. Her hair was tousled, her lipstick smudged—the triumphant spoils of an evening where she had officially displaced Emma as the woman on Andrew’s arm.
"Be quiet, baby," Andrew slurred, though he was grinning with arrogant satisfaction. "The maid is probably asleep, and Emma... God knows Emma is probably crying in the guest bedroom with a cup of warm milk."
"Let her cry," Lila purred, trailing red-tipped fingernails down his chest. "She was never right for you anyway, Drew. A mouse from the country. She didn't know how to look at investors. She didn't know how to wear jewelry. You’re going public in six months. You need a queen, not a doormat."
Andrew chuckled, feeling invincible. Tonight’s stunt had generated twenty million impressions across social media. His public relations team had warned him it might look cruel, but Andrew operated on the doctrine of dominance: power didn't apologize. Emma was too weak to leave. She had no money, no powerful family, no career of her own. She would forgive him. She always did.
He walked into his private study to pour two glasses of Louis XIII.
He didn't notice the cold draft coming through the terrace doors until he reached the desk.
Sitting dead center on the dark polished mahogany was a single manila envelope.
Andrew frowned, setting the heavy crystal decanter down with a dull thud. "What the hell is this?"
Lila wandered into the study, slipping off her Jimmy Choo heels and curling onto the leather sofa. "What is it, honey?"
Andrew opened the envelope.
The papers slipped out into his hands. *Divorce Decree. Petitioner: Emma Weston. Irretrievable breakdown of marriage. Full waiver of alimony. Full waiver of real estate assets.*
Beneath the legal boilerplate was Emma’s signature. Clean, unhurried, written in bold black ink. Attached behind the document was a thin platinum band—her wedding ring—and a folded printout from a private clinic in Midtown: a positive pregnancy test, dated eight weeks prior.
Across the bottom of the sonogram printout, Emma had written four words in pencil:
*You will never meet him.*
Andrew’s breath hitched in his throat. The room seemed to tilt beneath his expensive oxfords. He stared at the sonogram—at the tiny, bean-shaped shadow floating in grey static.
"Drew?" Lila’s voice sharpened with annoyance. "What’s wrong with you?"
Andrew didn't hear her. He lunged for his phone, punching Emma’s number with shaking thumbs.
*The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.*
He called the building’s concierge desk, barking into the receiver. "Where is my wife? Did she leave tonight? Who picked her up?"
"Mr. Weston," the concierge replied nervously, "Mrs. Weston left around ten-thirty. She took a black sedan. She didn't have any luggage, sir. Just a small handbag."
"Where did she go?!" Andrew roared.
"The driver was dispatched from an off-grid service, Mr. Weston. We don't have the destination log."
Andrew dropped the phone. It cracked against the marble floor.
Lila stood up, peering over his shoulder at the papers. When she saw the pregnancy test, her eyes flashed with venom. "A baby? She’s trying to trap you, Andrew! It’s a trick! She’s hiding in some cheap motel in Queens, waiting for you to beg her to come back. Don't fall for it!"
Andrew didn't answer. He looked at the empty platinum ring sitting on his desk. For the first time in his life, a cold, suffocating dread crept down the back of his neck. Emma hadn't asked for half his company. She hadn't asked for the penthouse, the cars, or the offshore accounts.
May you like
She had walked away as if he were nothing more than dirt on the sole of her shoe.
***
