Chapter 3 - The Empty PenthouseI drove back through the empty streets like a madman, the rain lashing against the windshield in violent sheets. The revelation from Richard Vance repeated in my head like a broken record: She’s been paying off the interest with her own inheritance... she was protecting you.
When I swiped my keycard into the private foyer of my penthouse, the silence of the apartment felt heavier than ever before.
"Vanessa?" I called out, tossing my wet coat onto the marble entryway bench.
No answer.
I walked down the long hallway toward our bedroom. The door was cracked open. A single bedside lamp was on, casting a warm yellow glow across an empty, immaculate room.
The closet doors were wide open. Half of her clothes—her silk blouses, her designer coats, the simple linen dresses she wore on Sunday mornings—were gone. The hangers clinked softly against the metal rod in the draft from the open window.
On the mahogany nightstand sat a small velvet box.
My hands shook as I picked it up and flipped the lid open. Inside rested the engagement ring—the four-carat diamond I had flown in from Antwerp, catching the lamplight with cold, mocking brilliance.
Next to the box was a folded piece of heavy cream stationery with my name written in her elegant, sloping handwriting: Adrien.
I unfolded it, my eyes racing across the ink:
Adrien,
I always knew you were a man who lived in numbers. I hoped, desperately, that one day you would learn to live in trust. Today, on that pavement, I realized you were still searching for a monster to fight, even if you had to invent one out of me.
Uncle Richard told me he was going to find you tonight. I tried to stop him, but some secrets are too heavy to carry alone anymore.
The debt is real. The danger is real. But my love for you was the only real thing I had left that wasn't tied to a ledger or a contract. You didn't trust the woman who loved you; you trusted your paranoia.
Don't look for me. The wedding is off.
Vanessa.
"No," I choked out, slamming my fist against the nightstand so hard the wood cracked. "No, damn it!"
I grabbed my phone and dialed her number.
“The subscriber you have dialed is no longer in service or has been disconnected.”
I tried her mother’s number. Ring, ring, ring. Voicemail.
I called Celia. She picked up on the second ring, her voice dripping with venom.
"If you're calling to apologize, save your breath, Mr. Cole," Celia snapped. "You broke her heart into a million pieces. She packed her bags an hour ago, and she is gone. You'll never see her again."
"Where is she, Celia?" I demanded, my voice cracking with a desperation I had never allowed myself to feel in my entire life. "Tell me where she went!"
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"Ask your ledgers, Adrien," she hissed, and the line went dead with a sharp click.
I stood in the center of the empty bedroom, the ring burning in my palm. For the first time in thirty-two years, Adrien Cole—the ruthless billionaire, the heir to the empire, the man who trusted numbers more than people—was completely, utterly powerless.
