Chapter 3 - The Morning After the Fall
The penthouse suite on Central Park West was dead silent when Andrew Weston woke up at 9:00 AM.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, illuminating the sprawling living room where empty champagne flutes and designer shoes from the night before still littered the floor. Lila Summers stirred beside him in the king-sized bed, her red hair spread across the Egyptian cotton pillows, her bare arm draped lazily over Andrew’s chest.
Andrew groaned, rubbing his temples as a dull hangover throbbed behind his eyes. Last night had been a triumph. The charity gala had plastered his face and Lila’s across the morning papers—society columns buzzing with rumors of a high-profile divorce. He didn't care. Emma had always been too quiet, too drab for his ambitions anyway. A trophy wife was fine for starting out, but now he was a titan of Wall Street. He wanted someone vibrant, someone who demanded attention.
He slid out of bed, pulling on a silk robe, and walked out into his private home office to check his morning briefs and stock portfolios.
The first thing he saw on the mahogany desk was the manila envelope.
It lay dead center, stark against the dark wood, stamped with legal urgency.
Andrew frowned, a sudden, cold knot tightening in his stomach. He picked it up. Inside were the divorce papers.
Emma Rose Weston vs. Andrew James Weston.
Every page was initialed. The final page bore Emma’s signature—firm, elegant, uncompromising. There was no demand for alimony negotiations, no request for counseling, no angry handwritten note. Just a cold, clinical declaration that their marriage was legally, irrevocably over.
“What is this ridiculous stunt?” Andrew muttered to himself, a laugh of nervous disbelief escaping his lips.
He marched down the hallway toward the master bedroom. “Emma!” he called out, pushing open the door.
The closet was half-empty. Her simple dresses, her sensible coats, her overnight bags—gone. Her vanity was stripped clean of the few modest trinkets she kept.
Panic, sharp and sudden, flared in Andrew’s chest. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number.
The subscriber you have dialed is no longer in service or has been permanently disconnected.
“Damn it, Emma!” Andrew shouted, throwing his phone against the bedroom wall. It shattered into pieces against the baseboard.
Lila sleepily padded out of the bedroom, wrapped in one of Andrew’s silk shirts, rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong, babe? Why are you screaming?”
“She left,” Andrew said, his voice dangerously low as his face turned pale. “My wife took the bait and actually walked out.”
Lila rolled her eyes, walking over to wrap her arms around his waist. “Oh, please. Where could a pregnant woman with no independent fortune possibly go? She’ll be back crying on your doorstep by tonight, begging for an allowance.”
Andrew stared down at her, a cold dread washing over him. He knew Emma came from humble roots in Pennsylvania. But as he looked at the shattered phone on the floor, a terrifying thought crossed his mind.
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Emma hadn't panicked. When she walked out of that ballroom last night, she hadn't cried.
She had looked at him like he was already a stranger.
