He Danced With His Mistress While His Pregnant Wife Watched, Then She Placed Her Wedding Ring in His Mother’s Hand and Disappeared

In Manhattan, winter was a relentless grind of dead ends.

David Vance sat in Daniel’s private office on the fiftieth floor of Harrison Tower, spreading three manila folders across the desk.

"She covered her tracks brilliantly, Daniel," Vance said, rubbing his tired eyes. "She didn't use her bank cards, she didn't access her investment accounts, and she sold her personal vehicle to a private dealership in Queens for cash two weeks before the gala."

Daniel pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. The penthouse had become an unlivable tomb. He spent his nights pacing the empty nursery room he had ordered renovated in a desperate, futile attempt to prepare for a family that wasn't there.

"She had to go somewhere, David. She was seventeen weeks pregnant. She needs medical care. She needs shelter."

"We cross-referenced every hospital network and private OB-GYN clinic in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Massachusetts," Vance said. "Nothing. But yesterday, we found a small financial anomaly."

Daniel looked up sharply. "What is it?"

"A monthly wire transfer from an offshore account belonging to Claire Sinclair—Amy’s former roommate from Columbia."

"Claire is in London caring for her father," Daniel said. "I spoke to her three weeks ago. She claimed she hadn't heard from Amy in months."

"Claire lied," Vance replied, tapping a document. "The wire transfers were routed to a commercial account registered to a small business in the Pacific Northwest. An independent bookstore in Lincoln County, Oregon."

Daniel stood up so fast his leather chair crashed against the window.

"Get the jet ready," Daniel ordered, grabbing his overcoat.

"Daniel, wait," Vance warned. "If you charge in there like a bull in a china shop, you will terrify her. She left because she wanted peace. If you take that away from her with a corporate entourage, you will lose any chance of redemption."