Five minutes after our divorce, my ex told me, “Take the girls, I have a son on the way now.” So I quietly took our daughters and left the country.

By 3:00 PM, Victor was sitting alone in the middle of the cavernous, high-ceilinged living room of the downtown Richmond penthouse.

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet.

The divorce papers lay scattered across the glass coffee table alongside the brass keys Penelope had left behind.

On the kitchen island sat the luxury gift baskets Miriam had sent over that morning—champagne, Belgian chocolates, and a miniature silver rattle engraved with “Welcome to the Reynolds Dynasty.”

Victor picked up the crystal champagne bottle and hurled it across the room.

It struck the marble fireplace with a deafening crash, shattering into a thousand glistening shards, soaking the white rug in expensive vintage wine.

“Aaargh!” Victor roared, tearing at his hair, pacing across the room like a caged beast.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

It was Walter.

“Victor,” his father’s voice came over the speaker, sounding twenty years older, stripped of all its former booming authority. “Samantha is taking your mother to the emergency room. Her blood pressure spiked dangerously. The doctors are admitting her for observation.”

“Dad... I’m sorry... I didn't know—”

“Shut up, Victor,” Walter snapped, his tone icy and filled with bitter contempt. “You paraded that woman in front of the entire country club. You told our corporate board that an heir was coming. Julian Hayes already knows, Victor. His associates are already laughing about it in the Commonwealth Club dining room. Our family has become the laughingstock of the entire state.”

“I’ll fix it, Dad! I’ll get Penelope back!” Victor pleaded desperately. “Penelope loves me! We were married for twelve years! She’ll forgive me! We can tear up the divorce decree!”

“Penelope is gone, you fool,” Walter said coldly. “I sent our corporate attorney to her family home an hour ago. The house is completely empty. The utilities are disconnected. Her phone is dead.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Victor’s hands began to tremble violently. He pulled up his contacts, frantically scrolling down to Penelope’s name.

He hit dial.

“We’re sorry. The number you have reached has been permanently disconnected or is no longer in service.”

He dialed Abigail’s iPad number.

Disconnected.

He dialed Penelope’s sister in Boston.

Disconnected.

Victor sank onto the floor amidst the shattered glass and spilled champagne, staring at the empty white walls of the multi-million-dollar penthouse he had fought so hard to keep.