Chapter 3 - The Cover-Up Begins
Downtown Chicago was waking up to a brisk autumn Friday, the financial district bustling with suits carrying briefcases, yellow cabs honking in traffic, and the low roar of commuter trains rumbling across elevated tracks.
Inside his River North penthouse, Ethan Sullivan stood in front of a custom walk-in closet, knotting a Hermès silk tie around his neck. The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sprawling skyline of the city he had conquered before turning thirty-five.
Vanessa Monroe emerged from the master bathroom wrapped in a plush white bathrobe, her wet hair smelling of expensive jasmine shampoo. She walked up behind Ethan, wrapping her slender arms around his waist and resting her chin against his shoulder blades.
"Do you really have to go to the office this early?" she pouted, pressing a soft kiss against his spine. "Can't we order room service and spend the morning together? Just pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."
Ethan turned around, placing his hands on her waist, giving her a charming, practiced smile that had won over dozens of institutional investors. "You know how it is, Vanessa. The venture capital summit in Geneva is next month, and the board wants all our tech portfolio metrics locked down by noon today. If I'm not at the helm, the junior partners will bungle the presentation."
"Fine," Vanessa sighed playfully, tracing a finger down the lapel of his tailored Tom Ford suit jacket. "But you're taking me to dinner tonight at Bavel. The private booth in the back. No excuses."
"Deal," Ethan said, leaning down to kiss her lips.
As he pulled away, his phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand.
Ethan froze. For a split second, his heart hammered against his ribs. Abigail.
He strode over to the nightstand. It wasn’t a call; it was a cluster of missed call notifications popping up on his locked screen.
Dr. Sarah Lin (3 missed calls). Northwestern Memorial Hospital (1 missed call). House Landline (2 missed calls).
Ethan stared at the screen, his breath catching in his throat. The panic returned, sharper and more insistent than before. He had deleted her text at 3:18 A.M. He had convinced himself she was just being dramatic. But a call from her obstetrician combined with a hospital switchboard at 7:30 in the morning meant one undeniable thing: something had actually happened.
Vanessa peered over his shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she read the caller ID on the screen. "Who’s Dr. Sarah Lin? Sounds like a woman."
"It’s... it’s Abigail's OB-GYN," Ethan muttered, his voice tightening.
"Why is she calling you at seven-thirty in the morning?" Vanessa’s tone hardened instantly, all playfulness vanishing from her voice. "Did your wife figure out where you were? Is she tracking your phone?"
"No, that's impossible," Ethan said quickly, his defensive instincts kicking in. "She doesn't know about this place. But... the hospital is calling. Something must have happened."
"Oh, please," Vanessa rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her robe. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now. If you answer that call, you'll be sucked right back into suburbia. You'll be changing diapers, holding hands in Lamaze classes, and playing the dutiful, trapped husband while she lectures you about being home for dinner. Is that what you want?"
Ethan looked at Vanessa. He looked at the penthouse, the wealth, the freedom, the glamorous, unblemished life he had built parallel to his marriage. The thought of giving all of this up—the scandal, the divorce lawyers, the division of his multi-million-dollar assets, the public humiliation among his billionaire peers—made his stomach churn with violent fury.
He didn't want a sick wife. He didn't want complications. He wanted his clean, perfect, unencumbered life.
"You're right," Ethan whispered, the dark bargain sealing itself in his mind.
"What are you going to do?" Vanessa asked, watching him intently.
Ethan unlocked his phone. Instead of calling the hospital back, he opened his call log. He selected Dr. Sarah Lin’s number and hit Block Contact. Then he did the same for the hospital switchboard number and the house landline.
"I'm going to work," Ethan said coldly, his face hardening into a mask of absolute detachment. "As far as I'm concerned, whatever happened at my house has nothing to do with me. If she wants to play games, she can play them alone."
Vanessa smiled, a predatory, victorious expression, and kissed his cheek. "That's my man. Now get out of here and go make us some more millions."
May you like
Ethan grabbed his briefcase, walked out of the penthouse, and stepped into the private elevator. As the car descended thirty floors to the underground parking garage, he pulled out his phone again. To ensure absolute deniability, he opened his messaging app, navigated to the chat thread with Abigail, and permanently deleted the entire message history—including the notification logs of the deleted 911 pregnant help text.
In his mind, if there was no digital record, it never happened. He was wiping the slate clean before the game had even truly begun.
