Chapter 5 - The Empty House
The Tribeca penthouse smelled of lavender and abandonment.
Adrien pushed the heavy mahogany front door open at 6:00 p.m. The silence that greeted him was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
“Evelyn?” he called out, his voice echoing off the twenty-foot ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River.
No answer.
He walked into the vast open-concept living room. The modern, minimalist furniture was all in place, but the soul of the home was completely gone.
He walked down the long hallway toward the primary bedroom suite. The master closet door was wide open. Inside, an entire half of the custom wardrobe was completely bare. Her shoes, her coats, her dresses, her casual sweaters—everything had been cleared out with surgical precision.
Only one item remained on her vanity: her platinum and diamond wedding ring, resting precisely in the center of the polished marble surface beside a set of brass keys.
Beside the vanity stood the nursery.
Adrien stopped in the doorway, his heart seizing in his chest.
The walls had been painted a soft, serene sage green. Decals of stars and woodland creatures were neatly arranged above an empty, beautifully crafted wooden crib that he had promised to assemble three weeks ago. The crib pieces were still neatly stacked against the baseboard, unopened, untouched.
Beside the unbuilt crib lay a small baby blanket—one Evelyn had knitted herself during her second trimester.
Adrien dropped to his knees on the nursery floor. He pulled the soft knit blanket to his face, breathing in the scent of wool and the faint, sweet trace of Evelyn’s perfume.
A guttural, agonizing scream tore from his throat.
He wept until his ribs ached, until his eyes burned, until he had no tears left to shed. The penthouse, worth eighteen million dollars, felt like an open-air tomb. Every dollar he had chased, every board meeting he had prioritized over a doctor’s appointment, every dinner he had attended while she sat home alone—it all rushed over him like a tidal wave of crushing regret.
His phone buzzed on the floor.
It was an unknown number. Adrien snatched it up, his voice cracking with wild, desperate hope. “Evelyn?”
“Mr. Holloway. My name is Sarah Vance.”
The name struck him like a bucket of ice water. Sarah Vance was the most feared, ruthless matrimonial and family law attorney in New York State. She represented billionaires’ ex-wives, and she never lost.
“Where is my wife?” Adrien demanded, struggling to his feet.
“Ms. Mercer is in an undisclosed location under professional care,” Vance replied, her tone sharp, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth. “She is safe, and her son is healthy. That is all the information you are legally entitled to receive at this juncture.”
“She is my wife!”
“As of two o'clock this afternoon, formal divorce papers and an application for sole legal and physical custody have been filed with the New York Supreme Court,” Vance continued calmly. “A temporary restraining order and asset preservation injunction have also been granted. You are legally barred from contacting Ms. Mercer directly, via telephone, electronic communication, or third parties.”
“You can’t keep me from my child!” Adrien yelled, his hand clutching the empty baby crib. “I have parental rights!”
“You have rights that will be adjudicated by a family court judge over the coming months, Mr. Holloway,” Vance said coldly. “Given the public record of emotional abandonment during birth and the documentation of your domestic conduct over the past twenty-four hours, the court has deemed Ms. Mercer’s protective measures entirely appropriate. Do not attempt to track her down. If an investigator or associate of yours approaches her location, I will have you remanded into custody for contempt.”
The line went dead.
May you like
Adrien let the phone drop. He looked around the empty, cavernous room, the silence closing in like a suffocating shroud. He was thirty-four years old, worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and entirely, irrevocably alone.
***
