Chapter 2 - The View from the Terrace
The drive into downtown Chicago took forty-five minutes through blinding lake-effect snow. Every streetlamp along Lake Shore Drive was wrapped in a halo of misting white, the frozen surface of Lake Michigan sprawling to my right like an endless slab of obsidian. Inside the heated cabin of my SUV, the silence was suffocating. My left hand gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned translucent against the dark leather. My right hand rested protectively over the tight, heavy mound of my belly.
Every few miles, a sharp, tightening sensation gripped my lower abdomen—Braxton Hicks, the doctor had called them last Tuesday. Stress-induced false labor. But there was nothing false about the cold ache settling into the center of my chest.
I knew where he was. Roman never changed his habits; power made men arrogant, and arrogance made them predictable. When Roman needed to handle "private matters" without the prying eyes of his corporate board or federal agents, he used the penthouse lounge at The Drake or the secluded private club tucked into the Gold Coast, The St. Clair. Celeste Armand had an apartment two blocks from The St. Clair.
When I pulled the car onto the curb opposite the Armand residence—a classic, limestone brownstone with wrought-iron balconies and glowing, gas-lit sconces—the street was nearly deserted. Snow was drifting over parked vehicles. Holiday wreaths hung on every glossy black door.
And there, parked directly in front of the gate with its engine idling softly, was Roman’s black armored Maybach.
Dante, Roman’s long-time driver and bodyguard, was sitting behind the wheel. Through the tinted glass, the amber glow of Dante’s cigarette burned in the dark. Dante was a man Roman trusted with his life. A man who had escorted me to my ultrasound when Roman had been called away to an emergency port hearing. A man who had brought me lavender tea when my morning sickness was so violent I couldn't stand. Dante was standing guard while his boss was inside another woman’s world.
I didn't turn off the ignition. I sat in the darkness, the engine humming beneath my seat, staring up at the grand French doors leading onto the wide, snow-dusted stone terrace of the second floor.
The curtains were drawn back. A magnificent Christmas tree stood inside the room, drenched in golden fairy lights.
And then they stepped into the frame.
My breath hitched. The air in my lungs turned to shards of ice.
Roman stood with his back half-turned to the window, his heavy cashmere coat unbuttoned, his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette unmistakable against the gilded backdrop. Facing him was Celeste. She wore a backless black silk evening gown that draped around her hips like spilled ink. Her blonde hair fell in soft, sculpted waves against bare, pale skin.
She was laughing. Her head tilted back, radiant, effortlessly elegant. Then, with an easy, practiced intimacy that made my stomach heave, she stepped into his space. She placed both palms against the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket. Roman did not pull away. He didn't step back into the shadows. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, whispering something against her temple.
His large hands came up. He didn't push her. He gripped her hips, his fingers resting at the small of her back—the exact hollow where he used to hold me when we danced in our living room before the world got so complicated.
From the snow-covered sidewalk across the street, looking through the frosted windshield, I was a ghost watching the living.
I looked down at myself. I wore an oversized, bulky white maternity coat. My ankles were swollen. My skin was pale from weeks of insomnia and silent panic. Inside me, Roman’s child kicked hard, a rhythmic shudder that pressed against my lungs until I couldn't breathe.
“You’re emotional,” he had told me an hour ago. “You’re imagining things.”
He hadn't stayed for Christmas dinner. He hadn't stayed to feel our baby kick. He was here, framing this beautiful, unburdened woman in gold light, while his heavily armed driver kept watch for anyone who might interrupt their holiday sanctuary.
A violent contraction ripped through my pelvis, sharp enough that a low groan tore from my throat. I bent forward over the steering wheel, pressing my forehead against the cold leather. Tears burned behind my eyelids, but I refused to let them fall. If I started crying now, I would shatter. And mothers do not have the luxury of shattering.
When the spasm eased, I lifted my head. Roman was still standing there, his head dipped close to Celeste’s ear.
I put the car in reverse.
I didn't honk. I didn't march up the stone stairs and cause a scene for Dante to clean up. I didn't demand an explanation that would only consist of more elegant lies dressed up as corporate collateral. When a woman is treated like an inconvenience, she does not scream for attention; she leaves so quietly that the silence deafens the man who took her for granted.
As I steered the SUV back onto the boulevard, heading toward the quiet fortress in the suburbs, the tears finally came. Not in wild sobs, but in a cold, steady stream that burned against my cheeks.
May you like
I was done being Roman Vascari's ornamental prize. I was done waiting behind guarded walls for scraps of a husband who had already moved on.
By the time I reached the estate gates, the clock on the dashboard read 8:15 PM. I had three hours before Roman’s self-imposed midnight deadline. Three hours to erase five years of my life.
