PART 4: The Empty Penthouse
PART 4: The Empty Penthouse
Panicked husbands face cold marital ruins.
Back in Manhattan, at 9:00 a.m. on Christmas Day, Harrison Mercer stepped out of the private elevator onto the forty-first floor of his apartment building, shaking the winter chill from his charcoal wool coat.
He looked exhausted.
The weekend getaway with Sienna Blake had not gone according to plan; Sienna had spent the entire morning complaining about the drafty cabin, whining about his lack of attention, and demanding to know when he was going to officially file for divorce from Clare.
Harrison had grown irritated, packed his bags before breakfast, and sped back down the interstate, convincing himself that a quick apology, a jewelry store gift card, and a reminder about her "pregnancy hormones" would easily bring Clare back into line.
He pushed open the double doors of the penthouse.
“Clare?” he called out, tossing his car keys onto the entryway tray.
Silence answered him.
He walked into the kitchen.
The Christmas dinner he had abandoned twenty-four hours earlier still sat on the dining table, the turkey cold and congealed beneath its silver dome.
A vague knot of unease tightened in his stomach.
“Clare?” he called out louder, walking toward the master bedroom upstairs.
The bedroom was empty.
Her closet doors stood wide open, revealing neat rows of empty hangers where her designer dresses used to hang.
Her vanity was stripped bare—no perfume bottles, no hairbrushes, no skincare jars.
Panic, sharp and cold, flooded his veins.
He sprinted down the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs as he rushed toward the Christmas tree in the living room.
There, resting on the faux snow skirt beside the unopened Tiffany box, was a small, familiar velvet ring box.
And on top of it, a folded piece of white paper.
Harrison snatched the note up with shaking fingers, unfolding it as his eyes scanned the four chilling sentences.
You told me to go spend Christmas elsewhere. I took your advice.
Do not call my phone. Do not look for me.
The truth about your father’s estate is no longer yours to hide.
— Clare.
“No, no, no,” Harrison muttered aloud, his voice cracking as he flipped the note over, looking for a hidden joke, a sarcastic punchline, anything to prove she was just playing a game.
There was nothing.
He dropped the note, grabbed his wedding ring off the table, and pulled out his phone, frantically dialing her cell number.
“The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable or outside the service area.”
He dialed again.
Same automated response.
He opened his messaging app, firing off a rapid succession of desperate texts.
Clare, where are you? Stop playing games!
I'm sorry about last night! It was just a work emergency with Sienna—damn it, I mean the Lexington property!
Clare, pick up the phone! You're pregnant, you can't just run off in the middle of winter!
Nothing.
No read receipts.
May you like
No response.
For the first time in his charmed, ruthless life, Harrison Mercer realized that his money, his charisma, and his corporate power couldn't buy back a wife who had finally stopped believing his lies.
