Chapter 3 - The Empty Penthouse
The rain had turned into a relentless downpour by the time the black Mercedes pulled up to the main entrance of Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Nathan didn't wait for his driver to open the door. He lunged out into the gray deluge, his tailored wool coat soaking through within seconds, his polished shoes splashing through puddles of dirty slush. He burst through the revolving glass doors of the Prentice Women's Hospital pavilion, chest heaving, his tie crooked.
The reception desk was quiet, staffed by a middle-aged administrative clerk wearing pink scrubs.
Nathan slammed both hands onto the counter. "Rachel Cole. Room number. Now."
The receptionist blinked, startled by his wild eyes and dripping coat. "Excuse me, sir. You need to check in through security, and I need the patient’s—"
"I’m her husband," Nathan snapped, his voice echoing sharply across the polished lobby. "Rachel Cole. She was admitted Thursday morning. Where is she?"
The woman frowned, typing slowly on her terminal. Each keystroke sounded like a hammer against Nathan’s temples.
"Cole... Rachel," the receptionist read from the screen. She looked up, her expression cooling into professional indifference. "Room 412. But she was discharged forty-five minutes ago."
Nathan froze. "Discharged? Where did she go?"
"I cannot release personal discharge information, sir. If you are her husband, I assume you have her address."
Nathan turned on his heel and sprinted back out into the rain.
"Lincoln Park," he barked at his driver, throwing himself into the back seat. "Take Lake Shore Drive. Run every yellow light."
During the twenty-minute drive north, Nathan dialed Rachel’s number eleven times. Each call went straight to voicemail.
“This is Rachel. Please leave a message.”
Her voice sounded calm, recorded two summers ago when they were vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard. Back when he still took Saturday mornings off. Back before Cole Dynamics had consumed every waking hour of his existence.
"Pick up," he whispered, slamming his fist into the leather armrest. "Rachel, pick up the goddamn phone."
He dialed Evelyn.
The number you have dialed is currently unavailable or has been disconnected.
She had blocked him.
When the car screeched to a halt outside the three-story limestone brownstone on Webster Avenue, Nathan leaped out before the wheels had fully stopped. He ran up the granite steps, shoved his key into the brass deadbolt, and threw the heavy oak door open.
"Rachel!" his voice bounced through the grand foyer.
Silence answered him.
The brownstone was impeccably staged, just as the interior designer had left it six months ago. The herringbone hardwood floors gleamed under the soft ambient lighting. The abstract paintings he had purchased for four hundred thousand dollars hung in perfect alignment along the white gallery walls.
The house was sixty-five degrees. Cold. Dead.
Nathan took the stairs two at a time, taking the steps toward the master suite.
"Rachel! Owen!"
He stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom.
The king-sized bed was stripped bare, the white mattress pad exposed. The walk-in closet doors stood wide open.
He walked inside. Her side of the closet was completely empty. No silk blouses, no casual denim, no running shoes. On the central island, where she used to keep her jewelry box, lay a single velvet tray.
Inside the tray were her engagement ring—a five-carat emerald-cut diamond he had spent three months sourcing from Antwerp—and her platinum wedding band.
Beside them lay a single white keycard. The access key to the underground garage.
Nathan walked out of the closet as if moving underwater. He walked down the corridor to the third bedroom—the room that had caused their final, explosive argument before she left.
He had promised her it would be a nursery. But when he opened the door, there were no cribs. No changing tables. No soft yellow rugs.
Instead, the room contained a glass executive desk, two leather swivel chairs, and architectural drafts of Cole Dynamics’ new campus pinned to corkboards on the walls. He had never ordered the crib. He had never even called a contractor to paint the walls. He had told his secretary to handle it, and then he had canceled the purchase order when the quarterly margins tightened.
Nathan sank onto the edge of the glass desk, burying his face in his trembling hands.
The sound of his phone ringing shattered the silence.
He snatched it from his pocket, his heart leaping into his throat. "Rachel?"
"Nathan, it's Julian."
The disappointment hit Nathan like a physical blow. "What do you want?"
"The Swiss consortium has officially paused the syndicate," Julian said, his voice grim. "Heinrich Vance called from Zurich fifteen minutes ago. Word leaked that you walked away from the tarmac at Atlantic Aviation. The market thinks there’s an executive crisis at Cole Dynamics. Our stock is already down four percent in pre-market overseas trading."
"I don't care," Nathan whispered.
"You need to care!" Julian shouted, losing his composure for the first time in ten years. "The Board of Directors is calling an emergency session for two o'clock this afternoon. If you aren't on that video call with an ironclad explanation, they have the votes to invoke Section 4 of your operating agreement. They can strip your operational authority while the stock is vulnerable!"
Nathan stared at the bare, white walls of the room that should have been his son’s nursery.
"Let them," Nathan said quietly.
"Nathan, listen to me—"
Nathan ended the call.
He stood up, walking over to the window that looked out over the quiet, tree-lined street. A yellow taxi drove past, splashing through the gutter.
Where would she go?
Rachel had no other family in Chicago. Her father had passed away eight years ago. Her mother lived in a modest, two-bedroom brick bungalow in Oak Park—a working-class suburb twenty miles west.
Nathan grabbed his keys from the desk.
May you like
He didn't call his driver. He ran down to the garage, climbed into his black Porsche SUV, and hit the garage door opener. The engine roared to life with a throaty growl that sounded obscene in the quiet house.
He backed out onto Webster Avenue, tires smoking against the wet pavement, and pointed the car toward the Eisenhower Expressway.
