Chapter 4 - The Vanishing
Nolan arrived at the TriBeCa penthouse at three in the morning, smelling of high-end bourbon and Camille’s jasmine perfume. He expected tears. He expected Laurel to be curled up on the master bed, red-eyed and desperate, waiting for him to dictate the terms of her forgiveness.
Instead, the four-thousand-square-foot apartment was pitch-black and freezing.
“Laurel?” Nolan called out, tossing his keys onto the marble console.
Silence answered.
He frowned, walking down the wide hallway into the master suite. The bed was made with military precision. The closet door stood ajar. When he pulled it open, half the space was completely bare. Her modest coats, her comfortable shoes, and her sketchbooks were gone. Only the designer dresses he had bought for public appearances remained, hanging like hollow skins on velvet hangers.
On the kitchen island, sitting beneath a spotlight, was a pristine white envelope.
Nolan walked over, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar, sharp annoyance. He tore the envelope open. Inside was not a tearful plea, nor an apology for embarrassing him in front of the Westcotts.
It was an official notice of legal representation, signed by Arthur Vance, accompanied by an emergency order for temporary spousal restraint and an application for sole physical custody of their unborn child.
Pinned to the document was a single handwritten note from Laurel:
*The penthouse belongs to your corporation. The baby belongs to me. Do not look for us.*
Nolan crushed the paper in his fist. A dark, simmering fury rose in his chest. “She thinks she can survive on her own?” he muttered aloud to the empty room. “In two weeks, she’ll be begging to come back.”
May you like
He pulled out his phone and called his head of security. “Find her. Cut off all secondary credit cards linked to my accounts. Let’s see how far her pride carries her without my money.”
***
