Chapter 2 - The Emptiness of 740 Park
The elevator opened directly into the private vestibule of their tenth-floor penthouse.
Daniel slammed the double doors open, the scent of lavender and polished walnut greeting him. The penthouse was immaculate. Every surface was dusted, every book aligned on the built-in mahogany shelves. The silence inside was suffocating, heavy with the absence of life.
"Amy?" Daniel called out, his voice echoing down the wide gallery hall.
He strode into the master bedroom.
The walk-in closet door stood wide open. Daniel stopped dead in his tracks. Half the hangers were bare. Amy had not taken the custom evening gowns he had bought her for charity galas, nor the furs or the expensive jewelry stored in the velvet-lined drawers. She had taken three sweaters, two pairs of worn jeans, her winter coat, her passport, and her college sketchbooks.
On the center island of the closet, resting squarely atop a stack of dry-cleaned shirts he hadn't worn in weeks, sat an unsealed white envelope.
Daniel’s hands shook as he picked it up.
Inside was a single card and a glossy black-and-white slip of thermal paper.
He looked at the card first. Written in Amy’s clean, familiar cursive were five sentences:
We were supposed to build a life together, not an empire where I lived as a ghost. I tried to wait for you, Daniel, but our child deserves a father who is present, not a stranger who buys apologies in airports. Do not look for us. Live the life you chose.
Daniel’s breath caught in his throat. His vision blurred.
He pulled out the thermal paper.
The ultrasound image was crisp. A tiny, curved silhouette nestled within the dark space of a womb, with the clinic’s header printed in small black letters: Patient: Amy Harrison. Gestational Age: 17 Weeks, 3 Days. Status: Healthy Single Intrauterine Pregnancy.
Daniel collapsed onto the edge of the bed, the paper slipping from his fingers before he frantically snatched it back from the floor.
Seventeen weeks.
More than four months.
May you like
Memories assaulted him with the force of physical blows. The morning in September when Amy had stayed in bed with what he assumed was the flu, and he had left for a logistics conference in Dallas. The dinner in October when she had ordered water instead of wine, and he had spent two hours on the phone negotiating a shipping berth in Rotterdam. The weekend in London with Vanessa—when he had kissed Amy’s forehead at dawn, promised to make it up to her, and boarded a private jet.
"My God," Daniel whispered, burying his face in his hands as a dry, ragged sob tore from his chest. "What have I done?"
