Chapter 4 - The Cabin in the Storm
A thousand miles away from the chaos of Chicago, the roar of the Atlantic Ocean crashed violently against the jagged black rocks of coastal Maine.
Rain poured down from a pitch-black sky, hammering against the wooden shutters of a isolated cabin perched on the edge of a cliff.
Inside, the cabin was warm, smelling of cedarwood, dry pine, and brewing chamomile tea. A crackling fire illuminated the cozy living room, casting soft golden shadows across the rustic furniture.
I sat in a worn leather armchair by the stone hearth, wearing an oversized knit sweater and leggings.
My left hand rested gently over my stomach. Beneath the soft wool, a faint, distinct swell was visible—four months of a tiny, quiet miracle growing inside me.
"He knows by now," a quiet voice spoke from the kitchen doorway.
Patricia, my attorney and lifelong friend, stepped into the room holding two warm mugs. She had flown in on a private charter from Chicago three hours ago to ensure the final paperwork was secured.
"How bad was it?" I asked quietly, taking the mug from her hands.
"He broke a decanter at Vanessa's, destroyed his command room at the docks, and threatened to wage war on the state court," Patricia said, sitting down on the rug opposite my chair. "He found the medical report in your safe."
I closed my eyes for a long moment. A small, painful ache tightened in my throat, but no tears came. I had cried all my tears months ago on the cold marble floor of our master bathroom while Adrian was out entertaining another woman.
"Do you think he'll guess where I am?" I asked softly.
"He's running down every lead in London, Paris, and Los Angeles," Patricia said. "He thinks like a mob boss, Eleanor. He thinks you ran to a high-end luxury resort or an offshore hideout protected by security teams. He can't comprehend that you would choose a ninety-square-foot wooden cabin with no cell service and a wood-burning stove."
I turned my eyes toward the small wooden coffee table beside me.
Lying there was the faded photograph from our honeymoon six years ago.
Back then, Adrian hadn't been the ruthless Don of Chicago. He had been a rising lieutenant in his father’s crew—ambitious, dangerous, but still possessed a heart capable of gentle love. We had spent one glorious, freezing week in this exact cabin, eating canned soup, drinking cheap gas-station coffee, and listening to the rain.
On the last night of that honeymoon, standing on the ocean cliff under a blanket of stars, Adrian had held my face in his warm hands and made a promise:
"If the blood and the money ever change me, El... if I ever become a monster you don't recognize... give me three days. Wait for me at the cabin for three days. If I don't show up as the man who married you, burn the key and leave me forever."
I picked up the photograph, turning it over to stare at the circled date on the back.
Three days.
Today was Day One.
"Why are you giving him three days, Eleanor?" Patricia asked softly, looking at me with deep concern. "After everything he did to you? After the lies? The mistress? The betrayal?"
"Because I loved him," I answered, my voice steady despite the storm raging outside. "I loved the man he used to be. And before I close this door forever and raise our child in peace, I owe that memory three days."
May you like
I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.
"If the man I married still exists somewhere beneath the blood and the crown... he will remember this place," I whispered to the fire. "And if he doesn't... then Adrian Morgan is already dead to me."
