Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Eleven Years
By 7:00 AM, Daniel Pierce arrived at the penthouse after receiving fourteen frantic text messages from Grant.
When Daniel stepped out of the elevator, he found the high-powered CEO of Mercer Development sitting on the bare floor of the living room, still wearing his rumpled suit from the night before, surrounded by old photo albums and stacks of financial papers.
“Grant?” Daniel asked, appalled by his partner's appearance. “What the hell happened? The site inspection is at eight—"
“She’s gone, Daniel,” Grant whispered, his voice hoarse and shattered.
“Who’s gone? Claire? Did she go to her sister’s in Connecticut?”
“She left her ring,” Grant said, holding up his hand. The platinum band sat on his thumb. “She cleared her closet. She deleted her phone number. She’s... she left me.”
Daniel took a deep breath, setting his leather briefcase on the counter. “Look, man, she’s upset. You came home late on your anniversary and made that stupid joke. I told you it was a bad call. Give her two days to cool off. She’ll come back. Claire loves you. She’s been with you since we were eating dollar pizza in Queens.”
Grant lifted his bloodshot eyes to look at his partner. He picked up the medical report from St. Catherine’s and tossed it across the floor.
Daniel picked it up, reading the lines. As his eyes moved down the page, his nonchalant expression vanished, replaced by horror. “Oh... My God. Grant... you didn't know?”
“She lost our child eight months ago,” Grant choked out, burying his face in his trembling hands. “She was in the hospital alone. I was in Dallas drinking scotch with the Henderson Group. She came home to an empty house, and I thought she had a cold. I didn't ask her a single real question for eight months, Daniel! I didn't look at her face! I was too busy closing the Hudson Yards deal!”
Daniel sat down heavily on the couch, completely speechless.
“I told her last night I could always marry again,” Grant sobbed, the sound raw and terrible in the pristine, quiet room. “I laughed in her face while she was carrying the weight of a dead baby in her heart. I did this to her.”
“Grant...” Daniel said softly. “We’ll find her. I’ll hire a private investigator right now. The best firm in the city.”
“I don't want a private investigator to drag her back,” Grant said, standing up on shaky legs. “I need to know if she's safe. I need to know where she is.”
Grant walked over to her empty painting easel in the corner of the room. On the floor beneath it was a small scrap of canvas she had discarded weeks ago. It was painted entirely in shades of deep gray and ocean blue—a solitary figure standing on a deserted shore, staring out at a vast, endless horizon.
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For six years, Grant had thought he was building a kingdom for his wife. He had believed that money, square footage, penthouse views, and financial security were the ultimate expressions of love. He had converted his youth, his warmth, and his time into concrete and glass, assuming she would happily wait at the end of the rainbow.
He realized now that while he was building the kingdom, he had let the queen starve to death inside the walls.
