Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the TownhouseThe townhouse on East Seventy-Fourth Street stood tall and impeccably stone-faced, a monument to the wealth Saraphina and Adriano had built together.
For the last five years, this had been her sanctuary. She had picked out the imported Italian marble for the foyer. She had designed the nursery on the third floor, painting it a soft, muted sage green just three weeks ago. Now, looking up at the darkened windows from the back seat of Elena’s idling SUV, it looked like a mausoleum.
“You have exactly ten minutes,” Elena said, her voice tight with anxiety, gripping the steering wheel. “If he shows up, you leave whatever you are holding, and you walk out the front door. Promise me, Sera.”
“Ten minutes,” Saraphina agreed, pulling the collar of her damp maternity coat up around her neck.
She slipped out into the freezing rain. The street was quiet, insulated by the heavy weather and the sheer exclusivity of the zip code. She bypassed the main entrance, walking down the narrow, wrought-iron side gate that led to the service door.
Adriano had changed the security codes on the front door, but Saraphina knew the house better than the architect who drew the blueprints. She punched a bypass sequence into the keypad—a master override she had insisted the installers leave for emergencies.
The lock clicked. Green light.
She stepped inside, the heavy door shutting out the sound of the rain.
The house was completely silent. The scent of Adriano’s expensive cedarwood cologne lingered in the hallway, making her stomach twist with a sickening combination of nostalgia and absolute disgust.
She moved quickly, quietly, making her way up the grand staircase to the second floor.
Adriano’s study was at the end of the hall, sealed by a heavy mahogany door. The new security system he had bragged about was a biometric keypad. Fingerprint and passcode.
Saraphina didn't panic. She pulled a small pair of latex gloves from her pocket and a clear strip of lifting tape she had taken from Elena’s craft drawer. Yesterday morning, Adriano had handed her his favorite crystal tumbler of whiskey before heading to a "late meeting." She had placed that glass in the dishwasher, but she hadn't run it. She had retrieved it an hour ago.
She pressed the tape to the keypad, transferring the faint smudge of his thumbprint. The scanner beeped. It required a secondary code.
She thought about the man she had married. A narcissist disguised as a visionary.
She typed in the date Falcone Strategic Logistics hit its first billion-dollar valuation.
Access Granted.
The door clicked open. Saraphina slipped inside, closing it silently behind her.
The office was immaculate. Dark leather, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a massive mahogany desk. She went straight for the oil painting of the Amalfi coast hanging behind the desk. She swung it open, revealing the wall safe.
She didn't need a fingerprint for this one. She knew this code. It was the date of their wedding.
She punched it in.
Error.
Her breath caught. He had changed it.
She closed her eyes. Think. Who is he now? What does he value?
It wasn't their wedding. It wasn't the company.
Her fingers trembled as she typed in Celia Moretti’s birth date.
The heavy steel bolts slid back with a dull thunk.
Saraphina let out a shaky breath, swinging the heavy door open. Inside were stacks of cash, a velvet box containing a diamond necklace she had never seen, and three thick manila folders.
She pulled the folders out and laid them on the desk, clicking on a small penlight.
The first folder contained the original copies of the forged transfer agreements Nicholas had shown her. She shoved them into her leather tote bag.
She opened the second folder. It was labeled Medical Proxy.
As her eyes scanned the pages, the coldness in her hands spread directly into her chest, wrapping around her heart until it physically ached.
It was a drafted legal petition for full, sole custody of their unborn daughter.
Attached to the petition were emails between Adriano and a high-priced psychiatrist. Adriano had been carefully planting a narrative for months. He had detailed Saraphina’s "erratic behavior," her "debilitating prenatal depression," and her "inability to distinguish reality from paranoia." He was building a medical case to have her declared unfit the moment the baby was born.
He didn't just want her company. He wanted her child. He wanted to completely erase her from the life she had built, leaving her penniless and alone in a psychiatric ward while he raised their daughter with his mistress.
A hot, violent wave of pure maternal rage surged through her. It burned away the last remnants of the woman who had loved him.
Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of the heavy front door opening echoed up the staircase.
“Sera? Are you here?”
May you like
Adriano’s voice drifted up from the foyer.
Saraphina froze. She looked at the open safe. She looked at the documents on the desk. She had less than thirty seconds.
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