Chapter 4 - The Empty Nest and the Legal Trap
Ethan’s Aston Martin tore through the Loop traffic, running two yellow lights before screeching to a halt outside my luxury high-rise on Grand Avenue.
He didn't wait for the doorman. He punched his own security code into the elevator keypad, rocketed to the twenty-second floor, and pounded furiously on my apartment door.
"Emma! Open the door right now!"
Silence answered him.
He pulled out his master key—a key I had foolishly given him three years ago—and shoved it into the lock. The door swung open.
The apartment was terrifyingly quiet.
Ethan rushed inside, his shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. "Emma?"
He checked the bedroom. The bed was made, pristine and untouched. He checked the master closet. Half of my designer suits, my surgical scrubs, and my casual wear were gone. Missing too was my passport case, my laptop bag, and the heavy leather medical case I took everywhere.
On the center of the white marble kitchen island sat a single, neatly folded piece of hotel stationery.
Ethan’s breath hitched. He snatched the paper up.
My handwriting was sharp, precise, and completely devoid of emotion:
Ethan,
Since you were so concerned about legal protections and administrative paperwork yesterday, I thought I would save you some trouble.
I have already notified the Peninsula Chicago catering, venue, and florists that all charges have been frozen under my legal representation's advisement. Furthermore, since you are legally married to Vanessa, I assumed you wouldn't mind substituting her into the wedding gown currently hanging in the bridal suite. After all, you wouldn't want four hundred guests, your business partners, and your grandfather to realize you're a bigamist.
As for Henry’s thoracic case: I’ve transferred his complete surgical profile and telemetry data to Dr. Vance at Northwestern. You’re on your own.
Do not call me. Do not look for me.
Dr. Emma Carter
Ethan stared at the note, the words blurring before his eyes.
"No," he whispered, backing away from the island as if the paper were burning his fingers. "No, no, no..."
His phone rang. It wasn't me. It was his mother, Eleanor Whitmore.
Ethan answered mechanically.
"Ethan! Where are you?" Eleanor’s voice shrieked through the speaker, frantic and high-pitched. "The guests have been sitting in the ballroom for an hour! Henry is asking where Emma is, and the hotel manager just told me that all the credit card authorizations for the reception have been flagged and frozen by a legal injunction! What is happening?!"
"Mother," Ethan said, his voice hollow, the blood draining completely from his face. "Emma is gone."
"Gone? What do you mean gone?! The wedding starts in forty minutes!"
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"She knows about Vanessa," Ethan whispered, the terrible weight of his own arrogance finally crashing down upon his skull like an avalanche.
On the other end of the line, Eleanor went deathly silent. Then she screamed a curse that Ethan had never heard his mother utter in his entire life.
