Chapter 3

The fluorescent lights of the underground parking garage hummed overhead.

Faith held Leo's small, warm hand tightly in hers as they walked toward the sleek black Maybach waiting near the private elevator bank.

Arthur already had the rear door pulled open.

Hartwell stood beside the car, his head bowed as his thumbs flew across the screen of his phone. He had changed into a fresh suit, his hair slightly damp from the shower.

Leo spotted him. The boy's eyes lit up. He yanked his hand free from Faith's grip and ran forward, throwing his arms around Hartwell's legs.

"Daddy!"

Hartwell slipped his phone into his breast pocket. The icy rigidity in his posture melted slightly. He reached down, his large hand gently ruffling Leo's dark hair.

Faith stood a few feet away, watching the brief display of paternal warmth. A bitter, acidic ache coated the back of her throat.

They climbed into the cavernous backseat of the Maybach.

Faith slid all the way over, pressing her shoulder hard against the cold glass of the window. She put as much physical distance between herself and Hartwell as the leather bench would allow.

The air inside the car was thick, heavy with an oppressive, suffocating tension.

Leo, sensing the unnatural freeze between his parents, sat perfectly still in the middle, his small hands gripping the straps of his backpack.

The Maybach glided smoothly out of the garage and merged into the chaotic crush of Manhattan morning traffic.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of an elite Upper East Side private prep school.

Faith leaned over the center console. She pressed her lips to Leo's forehead, inhaling the sweet, soapy scent of his skin.

"Be good today, baby," she whispered softly. "Listen to your teachers."

Leo nodded. He slid out of the car, adjusting his backpack. He turned and waved enthusiastically at the tinted windows before jogging through the school gates.

Faith kept her eyes glued to his small figure until he completely disappeared inside the brick building.

Only then did she slowly sit back against the leather seat.

Hartwell reached out and pressed a silver button on the armrest. With a soft, mechanical whir, the soundproof glass partition rose, sealing the rear cabin off from the driver.

The enclosed space instantly felt like a vacuum. The silence was deafening.

Hartwell turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Faith. There was absolutely zero warmth in them. They were flat, calculating, and ruthless.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice a low, commanding strike.

Faith turned her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were as calm and stagnant as a dead lake.

"Okay," she said.

Hartwell's brow twitched. The immediate, emotionless agreement clearly caught him off guard. But he didn't hesitate. He reached for the detonator.

He leaned back, adjusting his cuffs, speaking with the exact same tone he used to dismantle rival corporations in a boardroom.

"Eveline is back in New York," Hartwell stated coldly. "We are getting a divorce."

The words hung in the chilled air of the car.

Hartwell watched her face. He braced himself. He waited for the inevitable explosion. He expected her to gasp, to start crying, to throw herself at him and beg him not to do this to their family.

He had an entire arsenal of cruel, logical arguments prepared in his head to crush whatever pathetic excuses she would use to try and save the marriage.

But Faith didn't move.

She didn't shed a single tear. Her breathing didn't hitch. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, perfectly measured rhythm.

She just sat there, staring at him with a terrifying emptiness.

Five agonizing seconds ticked by.

Then, Faith's pale lips parted. She delivered a single, crystal-clear word.

"Okay."

Hartwell's pupils dilated violently. His hands, which had been loosely clasped in his lap, suddenly went rigid.

He stared at her, utterly paralyzed by disbelief.

His brain scrambled to process the data. He assumed he had misheard her. Or worse, that this was some new, manipulative psychological game she was playing.

Hartwell leaned in, his massive shoulders crowding her space. He lowered his voice to a lethal, vibrating growl.

"Do not play games with me, Faith. I don't have the patience for your theatrics."

Faith calmly turned her head away from him. She looked out the window at the blurred trees of Central Park rushing by.

"I'm not joking," she said, her voice flat and bored. "Just have your lawyers prepare the paperwork."

The absolute, dismissive apathy in her tone hit Hartwell like a physical punch to the gut. It was like swinging a sledgehammer and hitting thin air.

A sudden, suffocating tightness gripped his chest. He couldn't breathe right.

He reached up, his fingers aggressively yanking at his tie, loosening the knot he had just tied. He glared at the side of her face, his jaw grinding so hard his teeth ached.

The Maybach slowed to a halt in front of the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Ware Group headquarters on Wall Street.

The soundproof partition lowered with a hum. "We've arrived, sir," Arthur announced.

Faith didn't even glance in Hartwell's direction.

She reached for the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped out onto the cold pavement.

"I'll wait for your lawyer," she tossed over her shoulder, slamming the heavy car door shut behind her.

Hartwell sat frozen in the backseat, watching through the tinted glass as his wife walked to the corner, raised her hand, and disappeared into the back of a yellow cab.