Chapter 2 – A MOTHER’S SANCTUARY STRIPPED DOWN TO BARE WOOD

I didn’t wait for his answer.

I turned and ran toward the grand mahogany staircase.

“Margaret, stop!” Dominic shouted, his heavy footsteps echoing against the marble floor as he chased after me. “Let me explain!”

I didn’t stop.

My chest heaved as I took the stairs two at a time, my silk blouse clinging to my skin.

For twenty-three years, the third door on the left had been my sanctuary.

It was where I kept the hand-painted rose wallpaper.

The white oak crib.

The tiny, unworn yellow dresses still bearing their price tags.

It was the only place in this massive, cold mansion where my little girl still existed.

I reached the landing and grabbed the brass doorknob.

Dominic caught my wrist.

His grip was tight. Desperate.

“Maggie, don’t go in there,” he pleaded. “It’s already done. I had my men clear it out this morning while you were at the charity luncheon. I wanted to spare you the pain of watching it happen.”

I stared at the man who had slept beside me for three decades.

“You wanted to spare me?” I whispered, my voice trembling with a rage I had never known. “Or you wanted to hide what you were doing for your mistress?”

I yanked my hand free and pushed the door open.

The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs.

It wasn’t just empty.

It was erased.

The beautiful rose wallpaper had been brutally scraped away, leaving ugly grey plaster.

The white oak crib was gone.

The rocking chair where I had spent hundreds of hours crying was gone.

Even the heavy velvet curtains had been torn down, leaving the large windows bare against the dark Chicago night.

The room smelled of industrial bleach and fresh, wet primer.

I fell to my knees on the bare hardwood floor.

Twenty-three years of carefully preserved love, thrown away like garbage in a single afternoon.

“Where is it?” I choked out, wrapping my arms around my stomach. “Where are her things, Dominic?”

He stepped into the room, his expensive leather shoes loud against the empty floor.

“I had Paulie move everything to a climate-controlled storage unit downtown,” Dominic said softly. “It’s safe, Margaret. I swear to you.”

I closed my eyes.

I knew Paulie. He was Dominic’s most ruthless enforcer. He didn’t gently pack away baby clothes. He disposed of problems.

Vanessa appeared in the doorway.

She was holding her pregnant belly, looking around the stripped room with a look of mild disgust.

“It’s a bit smaller than I imagined,” Vanessa remarked, stepping past my kneeling body. “But once my interior designer gets the Italian marble in, it will be perfect for little Charlotte.”

She walked toward the closet.

“The contractor said they found something behind the baseboards,” Vanessa said casually. “Dominic, did you tell them to leave the heating grate open?”

I opened my eyes.

The heavy iron grate near the floor of the closet had been pried off.

Before Dominic could move, I scrambled to my feet and rushed to the closet.

I dropped back down, shining my phone’s flashlight into the dusty, dark ventilation shaft.

My hand brushed against cold metal.

I pulled it out.

It wasn’t a baby toy.

It wasn’t something that belonged to my daughter.

It was a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch.

I recognized the intricate engraving on the lid. A sprawling, aggressive ‘M’.

It was Dominic’s old watch. The one he swore he had lost in the river the night before Charlotte was born.

“Give me that,” Dominic snapped, his voice suddenly losing all its gentle regret.

He lunged toward me, genuine panic flashing in his dark eyes.

But I had already popped the latch.

The watch sprang open.

The hands were frozen at exactly 11:42 PM.

The exact minute my daughter had been pronounced dead.

But it wasn’t the time that made the blood freeze in my veins.

It was the tiny, perfectly folded piece of paper tucked inside the lid.

I pulled it out.

It was a deposit slip from a Swiss bank, dated the morning after Charlotte’s death.

The amount was three million dollars.

The depositor’s name was Carlo Bellini.

Vanessa’s father.

I looked up at Vanessa, who was staring at the paper with wide, shocked eyes.

Then I looked at my husband.

“Dominic,” I whispered, my hands shaking violently. “Why did Vanessa’s father pay you three million dollars the morning our baby died?”

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