Chapter 1 - The Cold Morning SunThe sun did not warm the glass of the high-rise penthouse; it merely exposed the dust suspended in the air. Evelyn tightened the sash of her silk robe, her knuckles white. Across the room, Grant stood like a statue sculpted from remorse and expensive wool, holding the white roses that had arrived too late.
"Twenty-two weeks," she repeated under her breath. The words were stones in her mouth.
For three agonizing years, her calendar had been dictated by hormone cycles, basal temperatures, and cold examination rooms. Grant had held her hand through every sterile heartbreak, looking her in the eye while murmuring rehearsed prayers. Now she knew that while she bled and prayed, he was building an entirely separate dynasty with Cynthia, the junior partner’s daughter.
"You can't walk away like this," Grant pleaded, his voice breaking at the edges. "Think about our reputation. Think about what we built."
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"You built an empire on borrowed dignity, Grant," Evelyn whispered. She picked up the brown leather overnight bag she had hidden behind the dressing screen. "You didn't build a marriage. You opened an account."
She walked past him without looking down at the scattered petals on the parquet floor. Down in the garage, the city roared as if nothing had changed, oblivious to the fact that her world had ended.
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