Chapter 3 - THE ANNIVERSARY GHOSTS
The rain tapped against the frosted glass of my Toronto apartment.
It was a modest two-bedroom place overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street in the Annex neighborhood.
No armed guards patrolling the perimeter.
No iron gates or secret panic rooms.
Just a simple wooden door with a sturdy deadbolt that I locked twice every night.
On the kitchen counter sat Grace’s urn, surrounded by a small circle of fresh white lilies.
Every morning, I made two cups of coffee—one for me, and one that grew cold beside her box.
My company, a major international logistics firm, had given me two weeks of bereavement leave, but work was the only thing keeping my mind from fracturing completely.
By the second week, I logged onto my corporate laptop to review supply chain reports.
My phone remained switched off, tucked safely inside a kitchen drawer.
I didn't want to hear Alexander’s voice.
I didn't want to hear his mother’s excuses.
And above all, I didn't want to hear Olivia Carter’s manufactured sympathy.
Yet, the ghosts of Chicago were not so easily outrun.
On a Tuesday afternoon, a sharp knock echoed against my apartment door.
My heart leaped into my throat.
I froze, staring at the wooden door.
Could he have found me this fast?
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Ms. Bennett? Mail delivery for unit 4B,” a muffled voice called out from the hallway.
I exhaled a shaky breath, walked over, and checked the peephole.
A uniformed courier holding a heavy manila envelope stood in the hall.
No bodyguards in dark suits.
No Alexander.
I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door a few inches, keeping the chain latch fastened.
“Sign here, please,” the courier said, holding out a digital pad.
I signed quickly, took the envelope, and closed the door, bolting it immediately.
I sat down at the kitchen table, my hands trembling as I tore open the cardboard-backed envelope.
Inside was a thick packet of legal documents.
Divorce papers.
Drawn up by Alexander’s personal attorneys in Chicago.
Terms of settlement: Generous financial support, real estate transfer of the Lake Forest mansion, and a non-disclosure clause regarding syndicate assets.
At the bottom of the first page was Alexander’s signature.
Bold.
Aggressive.
Slanted.
And beneath it, a handwritten sticky note in his familiar bold ink:
“Emily. Sign them and come home. We can start over. Please.”
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips.
Start over?
How do you start over when the foundation of your life is buried in a mahogany box across the room?
I picked up a red pen from the kitchen cup.
I didn't sign the settlement terms.
Instead, I crossed out every financial provision, every real estate offer, and every non-disclosure clause.
Then, across the signature line, I wrote three simple words in bold red ink:
“I WANT NOTHING.”
I slid the papers back into the envelope, wrote the address of his downtown Chicago law firm on the front, and tossed it onto the hall table to be mailed back the next morning.
He wanted to buy my forgiveness with mansions and millions.
He still didn't understand.
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I didn't want his empire.
I just wanted my little girl back.
