Chapter 2:
“I am trying to reach Savannah,” I managed to articulate, my tone vibrating with suppressed aggression.
“Who is asking?” the stranger countered, his voice infuriatingly calm.
“This is Gabriel Mercer. Her ex-husband.”
The line went entirely silent for three seconds. Then, a low, smooth chuckle vibrated through the speaker.
“Ex-husband?” the man mused, the amusement in his voice dripping with condescension.
A volatile cocktail of primal jealousy and pure rage ignited in my chest. “Yes. That is a factual statement.”
“You are operating under a massive delusion, Mercer.”
“Clarify your statement immediately,” I snarled.
“It means you are currently calling my wife’s phone.”
The blood crystallizing in my veins turned to absolute ice. Before my brain could formulate a retaliatory threat, the line emitted a sharp click. The dial tone hissed in my ear like a venomous snake.
I aggressively redialed. Voicemail. I tried a third time. Voicemail again.
Another man. Another man was kissing her goodnight. Another man had likely spent two and a half years changing my children’s diapers, comforting their fevers, and listening to my daughter call him Daddy every single morning.
My phone abruptly vibrated in my clenched fist. Raymond’s name flashed across the screen.
“Boss,” he spoke rapidly, his breathing uneven. “There is an immediate complication you need to be aware of.”
“What is it?” I barked.
“The individual who just answered her phone. I ran an instant biometric cross-reference on the voice print and local registries.”
“Give me a name, Raymond.”
Raymond paused. This was a man who had never hesitated while staring down the barrel of a federal indictment.
“Gabriel, this is the problem,” Raymond said, his voice grave. “Savannah’s reality in Saint Paul is nothing like the fractured narrative we assumed. The illusion is complete.”
I pushed myself up from my leather chair, a cold sweat breaking across my brow. “What are you keeping from me?”
“I cannot summarize this over a secure line. You need to witness this wreckage with your own eyes.”
I snatched my heavy cashmere overcoat from the rack and grabbed the glossy photograph off the desk, my knuckles turning white. “Have the car brought around to the private garage. Immediately.”
“What is our destination?” Raymond asked.
I stared down at the innocent faces of the twins, realizing my entire universe had just been brutally dismantled.
“Saint Paul,” I answered softly.
Because for the first time in my adult life, I wasn’t traveling as Gabriel Mercer, the terrifying titan of Minneapolis corporate warfare. I was traveling as the colossal fool who had utterly failed the only woman he ever loved. And I was traveling to confront a man who had stolen a life that rightfully belonged to me.
