Chapter 3 - The Cold Light of Columbus: When Narcissism Turns into Panic
Back in Columbus, the sun broke over the high rooflines of the prestigious Muirfield subdivision at precisely 6:45 a.m.
Derek Vance pulled his black Mercedes-Benz into the wide circular driveway, his head pounding with a mild hangover from an evening of top-shelf bourbon and endless business schmoozing. The client dinner had been a smashing success; the development partners had agreed in principle to back his new multi-million-dollar commercial complex in downtown Columbus.
Derek stepped out of the vehicle, smoothing the lapels of his designer coat. He felt the familiar, comfortable swell of superiority that guided his entire existence. He had intentionally stayed out until past two in the morning, enjoying drinks at an upscale cigar lounge with Marcus, deliberately ignoring the dozens of alerts vibrating against his hip.
In Derek’s mind, Clara’s dramatic display of labor pains was nothing more than an emotional ploy for attention—a desperate bid to tether him to her during his most important business night of the quarter. He envisioned finding her at Riverside Methodist, puffy-eyed, exhausted, and desperately relieved to see him walk through the door with an oversized bouquet of expensive lilies to forgive her insolence.
He unlocked the heavy mahogany front door, stepping into the quiet foyer. "Clara?" he called out, his tone laced with practiced condescension. "Are you back, or are you still sulking in the recovery ward?"
Silence met his voice.
He walked into the sprawling kitchen. The house was spotless, just as it always was, but something felt unnervingly hollow. He glanced toward the island where he had tossed the cab money the previous afternoon.
The fifteen dollars was still there.
Resting squarely on top of the crumpled bills was Clara’s platinum-and-diamond wedding ring, gleaming under the recessed ceiling lights.
Derek’s brow furrowed in irritation. "Dramatic child," he muttered, scooping up the ring. He slipped it into his pocket, fully convinced she had left it there to guilt-trip him before taking an Uber to the hospital.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Riverside Methodist Hospital’s main maternity desk.
"Good morning, this is Derek Vance. I’m calling to check on the room number for my wife, Clara Vance. She was admitted late last evening in labor."
There was a brief pause, the rhythmic tapping of computer keys on the other end of the line.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Vance, but we have no patient under the name Clara Vance admitted to labor and delivery, nor in our general intake over the past twenty-four hours."
Derek scoffed. "Check again. It’s Vance. V-A-N-C-E. She probably made a scene when she checked in without me."
"Sir, I have searched our entire network system, including Riverside, Grant, and St. Ann’s. There is no Clara Vance in the OhioHealth or Mount Carmel systems."
Derek's hand tightened around his phone until his knuckles went stark white. "That’s impossible."
"I can transfer you to security if you believe she is a missing person, sir—"
He hung up without another word. A cold, prickling sensation began to creep up the back of his neck, though he fought viciously to suppress it. Clara wouldn't leave. Clara had nowhere to go. She had no independent income, no credit cards that weren't tied directly to his main account, and her parents had passed away years ago. She was entirely dependent on him. He had designed her life specifically that way.
He dialed her cell phone. The number you are trying to reach has been turned off or is out of the coverage area.
"Damn it, Clara!" he roared into the empty kitchen, slamming his fist against the quartz island.
He marched down the hall and threw open the master bedroom door. The room was pristine, but the walk-in closet told a chilling story. Her side of the closet wasn't emptied in a panic—she hadn't taken the expensive evening gowns he bought for her to wear at charity galas. Instead, she had taken her comfortable clothes, her drafting portfolios, her personal sketchbooks, and her birth certificate from the small wall safe.
The safe door swung open on its hinges. Inside, Derek’s personal financial ledgers were untouched, but Clara’s old design notebooks—the original blueprints and concepts for the riverfront revitalization project that Derek had claimed as his firm's intellectual property—were completely gone.
Derek stumbled backward onto the edge of the king-sized bed, his heart hammering against his ribs in an unfamiliar rhythm: fear.
Not fear for Clara’s safety. Not fear for his newborn child. But fear of exposure.
If Clara had taken those design books, and if she went to the state licensing board or the regional development committee to reveal that Derek Vance had merely stamped his corporate seal over her brilliant architectural work, his entire multi-million-dollar empire would crumble before the first foundation was poured.
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He grabbed his phone again, his fingers shaking with rage and adrenaline, and dialed his private attorney, Greg Sterling.
"Greg," Derek barked the moment the call connected. "My wife disappeared last night. She was nine months pregnant. I need private investigators on every highway, every bus station, and every hospital within a three-hundred-mile radius. Find her before she talks to anyone."
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