Chapter 2 - The Morning After
The sunlight filtered through the sheer silk curtains of the Weston penthouse on Park Avenue, casting golden ribbons across the king-sized bed.
Andrew Weston groaned, his head pounding from vintage champagne and cheap victory. He rolled over, his arm instinctively reaching out across the Egyptian cotton sheets for Emma.
His routine was sacred. Emma always woke at six. By seven, she would have a glass of iced lemon water waiting on his nightstand, followed by freshly squeezed juice, a tailored suit pressed to perfection, and his morning briefing neatly printed from his private terminal. She was quiet, unobtrusive, and predictable.
His hand found nothing but cold, empty linen.
Andrew frowned, opening his bloodshot eyes. The other side of the bed was completely smooth. Unused.
"Emma?" he called out, his voice hoarse.
No answer.
A soft giggle sounded from the doorway. Lila Summers drifted into the bedroom wearing one of Andrew’s oversized silk shirts, unbuttoned dangerously low. Her fiery red hair was artfully tousled, her makeup scrubbed clean to reveal youth that Andrew had paid heavily to show off the previous evening.
"Good morning, handsome," Lila purred, walking over to straddle his lap. "Did you see Twitter? The *Page Six* alert? We broke the internet. Everyone is calling us the new power couple of Wall Street."
Andrew smiled lazily, letting his hands rest on her waist, but an irritating itch of discomfort scratched at the back of his mind. "Where is Emma? Did she sleep in the guest room?"
Lila rolled her eyes, pouting her collagen-plumped lips. "Who cares where your boring wife is, Andrew? Probably sulking in the nursery, crying over her little handmade booties. Let her pout. Honestly, after the show you put on last night, she should be packing her bags. You don't need a dowdy wallflower dragging you down anymore. You need *me*."
Andrew pushed Lila off him gently, feeling a sudden flare of annoyance. "Emma doesn't make scenes. She knows her place. She knows what my status requires."
He pulled on a plush robe and stepped out into the cavernous, two-story penthouse. The silence was eerie. The kitchen was dark. No coffee brewed. No smell of cinnamon or toast.
"Emma?" Andrew yelled, walking toward the master study. "Emma, stop being dramatic! We have the quarterly investor breakfast in two hours! Where is my damn tie?"
He pushed open the heavy double doors of his private office.
The room was pristine. The morning sun hit the center of his massive glass-and-steel desk, illuminating a single manila folder resting squarely in the middle of his blotter.
Andrew stepped forward, his brows furrowing. "What is this?"
Lila trailed behind him, chewing her bubblegum, leaning against the doorframe. "Ooh, maybe she left a love poem begging you to stay."
Andrew opened the folder.
His heart executed a sudden, violent drop.
Inside lay twenty-four pages of standard legal documents. At the top of the first page, bold black letters declared: **PETITION FOR ABSOLUTE DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.**
At the bottom of the final page, Emma’s signature was penned in sharp, elegant black ink.
Dated: *Yesterday, 6:00 PM.*
Three hours before the gala. Three hours before he kissed Lila in front of every camera in the tri-state area.
"What does it say?" Lila asked, stepping closer, her curiosity piqued. "Is she asking for money? How many millions is she trying to steal from us?"
Andrew didn't hear her. His eyes skimmed the terms of the petition, his brain struggling to process the words on the paper.
*Petitioner Emma Weston hereby waives all claims to spousal support, alimony, division of marital assets, properties, and equities belonging to Andrew Weston. Petitioner waives all claims to the Park Avenue penthouse, the Hamptons estate, and the corporate holdings of Weston Capital Management.*
*Petitioner requests sole legal and physical custody of the unborn child, with zero financial contribution demanded from the Respondent.*
"She... she took nothing?" Andrew muttered aloud, his voice hollow. "She didn't ask for a dime?"
Lila let out a high-pitched, triumphant laugh. "She waived alimony? Oh, Andrew, she’s even stupider than I thought! She walked away with nothing! She probably went crying back to her mommy and daddy's little farm in Pennsylvania! We won! Don't you see? We don't even have to pay her off!"
Andrew didn't feel victorious. A bizarre, cold dread began creeping into his chest.
In high finance, when an opponent surrenders every chip on the table without firing a shot, it doesn't mean they've surrendered.
It means they aren't playing the same game.
Andrew dashed into the master walk-in closet.
The left side—his side—was overflowing with tailored Italian suits, cashmere sweaters, and rows of handmade oxfords.
The right side was completely empty.
Every dress, every coat, every pair of shoes Emma owned had vanished. But more chillingly, the jewelry he had bought her—the sapphire earrings, the diamond tennis bracelets, the emerald pendant—were all arranged neatly on the marble vanity table. She hadn't taken a single piece of gold.
She had stripped her existence from his home as if she had never existed at all.
His phone on the desk suddenly began vibrating with violent intensity.
Andrew hurried back and snatched it up. The caller ID flashed: **MARK STERLING - CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD.**
Andrew cleared his throat, forcing his usual arrogant charm into his voice. "Mark! Good morning. I assume you saw the press from the Bright Horizons ball? A bit flamboyant, I admit, but any publicity—"
"Shut up, Andrew," Mark Sterling’s voice crackled through the speaker, ice-cold and furious. "Turn on CNBC right now."
"What? Why?"
"Turn it on, you idiot!"
Andrew grabbed the remote and flicked on the wall-mounted television. The financial news anchor, Jim Cramer, was practically screaming into his microphone:
*"—an unprecedented market movement this morning as a massive short position has been taken against Weston Capital Management. An anonymous European holding conglomerate, identified only as The Aquila Group, has dumped over four hundred million dollars into shorting Weston’s primary tech portfolio! Shares are down fourteen percent in pre-market trading, and rumors are swirling that Weston Capital's primary institutional credit lines are being frozen as we speak!"*
Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. The room seemed to tilt. "That’s impossible... The Aquila Group? Who the hell is Aquila? I've never crossed them!"
"Andrew," Mark Sterling snapped through the phone. "Every primary liquidity provider we have just pulled their underwriting. They cited 'leadership instability and character failure' following last night's stunt with your little mistress. If you don't stabilize this stock by the opening bell at nine-thirty, the board is calling an emergency session to strip your voting shares."
"Mark, wait! I can fix this! Emma just left, but—"
"Emma left?" Sterling paused, his tone shifting into something that sounded suspiciously like absolute dread. "Emma left you?"
"Yes! She filed divorce papers this morning! But she didn't take a dime, Mark! She's out of the picture!"
There was a long, horrifying silence on the other end of the line.
"You arrogant, blind fool," Mark Sterling whispered. "You have no idea what you just did, do you?"
The line went dead.
Andrew stared at the black screen of his phone, his pulse hammering in his ears. Beside him, Lila was staring at the television, her triumphant smile slowly dissolving into a mask of pale confusion.
"Andrew?" she asked, her voice squeaking. "What does shorting mean? Are we... are we losing money?"
May you like
Andrew shoved her out of his way as he sprinted out the door, desperate to find the woman he had discarded like trash twelve hours ago.
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