Chapter 3 - The Empty Suite
By two in the afternoon, the grand ballroom was entirely deserted.
The white hydrangeas looked suddenly pathetic, drooping under the heavy heat of the overhead chandeliers as hotel staff silently dismantled the tables, boxing up crystal glassware and rolling away the ice sculptures.
My father and I sat in a quiet corner of the hotel’s mezzanine lounge, far away from the wreckage of the reception hall. A pot of black coffee sat untouched on the low glass table between us.
Dad hadn't spoken a word in twenty minutes. He just stared out the floor-to-ceiling window watching the traffic crawl down Fifth Avenue under a gray, overcast sky.
“She’s gone back to the house,” Dad finally said, his voice raspy and worn down to a whisper. “Or at least, she tried to. I told her the locks were changed before she reached the driveway.”
I took a slow sip of ice water, my throat still burning. “Where is she staying?”
“I don't care if she sleeps in her car,” he muttered bitterly, closing his eyes for a long moment. He rubbed his temples with trembling fingers. “Thirty-four years, Sandy. We built a life together. I thought... I thought we were a team. And all the while, she was—” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“It wasn't your fault, Dad,” I said softly, reaching across the table to lay my hand over his calloused knuckles.
“I should have seen it,” he whispered, a tear finally breaking free and cutting a clean path through the wrinkles at the corner of his eye. “The late nights at the foundation. The sudden trips to the city. She always had an excuse, and I trusted her because she was your mother.”
My phone buzzed on the table.
It wasn't Michael. Michael had fled the hotel an hour after the announcement, sending a frantic series of text messages begging me to meet him at his law office to “sort things out calmly.” I had blocked his number before he reached the lobby.
The caller ID flashed: Unknown Number.
I let it ring out to voicemail. A second later, a text notification popped up on the screen:
“Miss Miller, my name is Arthur Vance. I represent Michael’s corporate holdings. We need to discuss the prenuptial asset distribution and your joint real estate acquisitions before tomorrow morning, or legal proceedings will be initiated.”
I stared at the screen, a cold, bitter resolve slowly replacing the numbness in my chest.
They thought because my wedding had collapsed in a single morning, I was going to curl up and let them dictate the terms of my destruction. They thought the humiliation of being the jilted bride would keep me quiet, compliant, and eager to sweep the scandal under the rug.
They didn't know me at all.
“Dad,” I said, pulling my hand back from the table and sitting up straight in my chair.
He opened his eyes, looking at me with a weary, questioning gaze. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Michael’s lawyer just texted me,” I said steadily. “They want to discuss asset distribution before tomorrow morning.”
My father’s eyebrows drew together in a dark, protective frown. “Let them try. We’ll retain the best litigators in the city. You won't lose a dime of what’s yours.”
“No,” I replied, a sharp, humorless smile touching the corners of my mouth. “We aren't going to hire a divorce lawyer to negotiate crumbs.”
Dad blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in my tone. “Then what do you want to do?”
May you like
“I want to take everything.”
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