Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Office
The corporate headquarters of Bennett Biomedical occupied the top two floors of a gleaming glass tower in downtown Chicago, overlooking the frozen expanse of the Chicago River.
Two weeks after Emma’s funeral, Cole Bennett sat behind his custom walnut desk, staring at a quarterly financial projection spreadsheet that he couldn't bring himself to read. The numbers were glowing in crisp blue and green on his dual monitors, but all he could see was the empty bassinet in Room 412 and the dead, hollow look in Claire’s eyes when she told him to leave.
The heavy mahogany door to his private office pushed open without a knock.
Sloane Avery walked in.
She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere wrap dress that accentuated her rounded stomach—a stomach that seemed to have grown at a miraculous, almost cinematic rate over the past two weeks. Her blonde hair was styled in loose, glossy waves, and she carried a designer leather tote bag that cost more than a month of groceries for an average family.
"Cole, darling, we need to talk about the nursery designer," Sloane said, walking straight toward his desk and dropping a stack of glossy interior design swatches onto his keyboard. "The firm from Gold Coast sent their portfolio, but their color palettes are entirely too traditional. I want minimalist Scandinavian. Lots of white oak, neutral linens, and organic cotton mobiles."
Cole didn't look up from his monitor. A dull, persistent migraine had settled behind his left eye ever since the night at the hospital, fueled by sleepless nights and a gnawing, shapeless anxiety that he tried daily to suppress with work.
"Sloane, not now," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "I'm trying to review the Series B dilution metrics. The board is breathing down my neck about the Q2 burn rate."
Sloane’s expression shifted instantly from cheerful entitlement to wounded grievance. She placed both hands on the edge of the desk and leaned over, invading his personal space.
"You haven't looked at me all week, Cole. You come home at midnight, you sleep on the edge of the mattress, and you smell like whiskey and stale air. Is this about Claire?"
Cole flinched as if he had been touched with a hot iron. "Don't bring her up."
"Why shouldn't I?" Sloane demanded, her voice rising sharply. "She’s out of the picture! You told me she signed the preliminary separation agreement last Tuesday. You told me she’s packing up her things and moving back into that cramped little apartment her brother owns in Evanston."
"She signed it, yes," Cole said, staring blankly at his mousepad. "Her lawyer sent over the executed documents yesterday. She didn't even ask for alimony. She just wanted my name off her bank accounts and her maiden name restored."
"Well, then!" Sloane straightened up, smoothing her dress with an air of triumphant finality. "She’s grieving her way, and we need to plan our future. My obstetrician called this morning. We need to schedule the private suite at Northwestern for the delivery in July. I want the VIP maternity wing on the eighth floor. It's twelve thousand dollars a night, but our son deserves the best."
Cole stared at her. For the first time, a strange, dissonant chord struck within his mind.
"Sloane... when is your exact due date again?"
Sloane blinked, a tiny micro-expression of hesitation flickering across her polished features before she smoothed it away with a practiced smile.
"Late July. Around the twenty-fifth. Why do you ask?"
"It's just..." Cole frowned, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Dr. Vance mentioned at your last ultrasound that you were measuring a bit small for twenty-four weeks. Have we gotten the genetic screening results back from the lab yet?"
Sloane’s posture stiffened. She snatched the design swatches off the desk and clutched them against her chest like a shield.
"The lab results are fine, Cole. You're just paranoid because of what happened with Claire. Stop projecting your medical trauma onto my pregnancy. It’s unhealthy."
Before Cole could press further, the intercom on his desk buzzed sharply.
"Mr. Bennett?" His executive assistant’s voice came through, tight and strained. "You have an urgent visitor in the lobby. She... well, she refused to wait for an appointment."
"Who is it?" Cole asked, annoyance flaring in his chest. "Tell them I'm in a board review."
"It's Dr. Bennett, sir."
Cole froze. The pen slipped from his fingers, rolling across the desk.
"Claire?"
"She says she needs access to the corporate archives," the assistant continued nervously. "Specifically, the R&D patent files from 2021—the ones you developed together before you incorporated."
Before Cole could answer, the heavy oak door swung open wide.
Claire stood in the doorway.
She wasn't wearing her mourning black anymore. She wore a sharp, charcoal-gray pantsuit that mirrored the one she had worn on the day they incorporated Bennett Biomedical. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned with an icy, terrifying intelligence. She didn't look like a grieving widow or a broken wife; she looked like a surgeon walking into an operating theater to perform a radical amputation.
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She looked past Cole, her gaze landing squarely on Sloane Avery, who stood frozen by the desk like a deer caught in high-beam headlights.
"Well," Claire said softly, stepping into the office and letting the heavy door click shut behind her. "It looks like the rats are nesting quite comfortably in the attic."
