Chapter 2 - The Rainy Retreat
|
The cold Manhattan air hit my face like a physical blow as we pushed through the revolving glass doors. The storm had worsened, the wind howling down Park Avenue and turning umbrellas inside out. I didn't care about the rain. I needed to put as much distance between my daughter and the lobby of Horizon Prime as humanly possible.
I hailed a yellow cab, practically shoving Stella into the back seat before collapsing onto the cracked vinyl upholstery beside her.
“Where to, lady?” the driver grunted, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I gave him our Upper East Side address, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger.
Stella sat quietly, her red boots dripping water onto the floor mats. She pulled the crushed paper necklace from her pocket, her lower lip trembling. “Did Daddy not want to see my building?”
The innocence in her question shattered the last remaining wall around my heart. I reached over, pulling her onto my lap, wrapping my arms fiercely around her small, trembling frame. I buried my face in her damp curls, inhaling the scent of her strawberry shampoo.
“Daddy is just very busy tonight, baby,” I whispered, fighting the agonizing burn of tears in my eyes. “He would love your building. It’s the best building I’ve ever seen.”
As the taxi crawled through the chaotic city traffic, the initial shock began to recede, leaving behind a cold, calculating clarity. This was not a drunken mistake or a fleeting affair. The woman in the emerald dress had moved with the casual, possessive grace of a long-term partner. The boy in the tuxedo had held Richard’s hand with the familiarity of a son.
Clare had called her his fiancée.
I pulled my phone from my purse, staring at the screen. There were no messages from Richard. Only a calendar notification reminding me to pick up his suits for an upcoming trip to Chicago.
May you like
Chicago. London. San Francisco. The endless stream of corporate expansions that kept my husband away from our bed for half the month. They weren't business trips. They were a secondary life. I had spent six years washing his clothes, managing his household, and raising his daughter, while he built an entire alternate universe.
By the time the taxi pulled up to our brownstone, the tears had completely stopped. I was no longer a heartbroken wife. I was a woman preparing for war.
