2"My husband abandoned me at O’Hare so he could take an earlier flight with his childhood sweetheart.

Adrian did not fly to London immediately.

He was stopped at the door of his private hangar by his father, Vincent Moretti, the seventy-year-old patriarch who had handed Adrian the reins of the family syndicate four years prior under one non-negotiable condition: *Legitimacy.*

"You step on that plane, and the federal prosecutors will freeze the shipping terminals in Gary by morning," Vincent said, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane, his eyes cold as flint. "You've been subpoenaed for the port expansion audit, Adrian. If you vanish across the Atlantic to chase your runaway wife, the board of directors will declare you unfit to lead."

"Claire is my wife!" Adrian had roared, his face flushed, looking closer to unhinged than Vincent had ever seen him.

"Then you should have treated her like a wife instead of an accessory," Vincent snapped back, his voice cutting like a razor. "You let that little parasite Sophia turn your home into her personal playground. Claire Bennett was the only thing that gave this family an air of respectability. Her father’s name kept the city planners from investigating your father-in-law’s permits. You thought you were invincible because you could frighten dockworkers, Adrian. You forgot that society tolerates a monster only when he has a lady by his side to polish his claws."

Vincent’s words were a bitter pill, but they were true. For the next three months, Adrian was trapped in Chicago by a web of legal hearings, federal depositions, and union negotiations.

Without Claire, the cracks in his life widened rapidly.

At the annual Autumn Symphony Gala—an event Claire usually organized with effortless perfection—Sophia had insisted on accompanying Adrian as his "platonic companion" to prevent rumors.

It was an unmitigated disaster.

Sophia had spent twenty thousand dollars of Adrian’s money on a garish, neon-pink couture gown that clashed violently with the understated elegance of Chicago's old-money philanthropists. Throughout the dinner, she clung to Adrian’s arm like a terrified child, interrupting conversations about municipal bonds and modern art to make shallow jokes or complain about the air conditioning.

"Where is Claire this evening, Adrian?" Mrs. Elizabeth Hastings, the grand dame of Chicago’s cultural board, had asked, her gaze sweeping dismissively over Sophia. "We were hoping to discuss her proposal for the inner-city arts outreach."

"Claire is... traveling," Adrian had replied through gritted teeth, feeling a cold sweat prickling the back of his neck.

"Traveling without her husband during the season?" Mrs. Hastings smiled, a thin, aristocratic smirk that signaled social execution. "How terribly modern. Or perhaps... she simply realized that some investments yield no respectable returns."

Adrian’s hands had curled into fists inside his tuxedo pockets.

Later that evening, in the private limousine ride back to the Gold Coast, Sophia had let out an exaggerated sigh, kicking off her heels. "Those people are so boring, Adrian! Why do you even care what old Mrs. Hastings thinks? You could buy her entire estate tomorrow if you wanted to!"

Adrian stared out the rain-streaked window at the neon glow of Michigan Avenue.

"Claire spoke four languages," he said quietly, his voice hollow. "She knew every artist, every curator, every city councilman’s weakness. She spent three weeks memorizing the architectural history of the symphony hall so she could talk to the preservation committee about my tax credits."

Sophia’s smile faltered. "Well, I’m sorry I’m not an encyclopedia, Adrian! But I’m here for you! I've always been here for you! Why are you comparing me to her?"

"Because she was my wife," Adrian whispered, turning to look at Sophia with eyes that were entirely empty. "And you... you are just the debt my father left behind."

Sophia’s breath hitched, genuine hurt flickering across her features. But Adrian felt nothing. The blind loyalty that had dictated his choices for a decade had vanished the moment he realized that without Claire, his empire felt like an empty, echoing tomb.

That night, Adrian locked himself in his study. He poured three fingers of bourbon, pulled out the surveillance photos Marco’s team sent every morning from London, and stared at them until the sun crested over the lake.

In the photographs, Claire was blossoming.

Her hair, once pinned into severe, elegant updos to fit the role of Mrs. Moretti, now fell in soft, natural waves around her shoulders. She wore tailored wool trousers, oversized cashmere sweaters, and vintage boots. In one photo, she was standing outside the British Museum with Julian Thorne, laughing so hard she had to lean against a stone balustrade.

Adrian’s fingers tightened around the glass until the crystal cracked, the sharp edges biting into his palm. A single drop of dark blood dripped onto the photograph, right over Julian Thorne’s smiling face.