Chapter 3 - The Morning After and the Crumbling Facade
Morning in Zachary’s household arrived with the usual clockwork precision—minus the person who made the clockwork turn.
At 7:00 AM, Zachary walked down the stairs, dressed in his crisp corporate suit, expecting the rich aroma of freshly brewed Colombian coffee and the sizzle of bacon.
Instead, the kitchen was dead silent. The counters were empty. The coffee machine was cold.
“Charlotte?” he called out, irritation already tightening his jaw.
No answer.
He walked down the hallway and pushed open the master bedroom door. The bed was neatly made—too neatly. The closet doors stood slightly ajar, revealing empty hangers where Charlotte’s everyday clothes used to hang. Her vanity table was stripped bare; her silver hairbrush, her simple moisturizer, and her small bottle of lavender perfume were completely gone.
Zachary stared at the empty space, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
She went to her sister’s, he told himself, the thought serving as a protective shield against panic. She’ll throw her tantrum, stay there for twenty-four hours, and come crawling back when she realizes she has no money of her own.
Just then, heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs, and Tristan appeared, dragging his school backpack behind him, wearing a scowl.
“Dad, where’s my breakfast? I told you yesterday I wanted pancakes, and I have soccer practice first period today.”
Zachary turned sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Your stepmom decided to throw a fit and go to her sister’s house. You’ll have to grab something at the cafeteria or eat cereal.”
Tristan crossed his arms, his mouth twisting into a sneer remarkably similar to his mother’s. “See? I told you she was useless. When is Mom coming back to take care of us properly? At least my real mom knows how to cook.”
Hearing that name—his ex-wife’s—used to give Zachary a comforting sense of domestic continuity. Today, it grated on his nerves.
“Just eat your cereal, Tristan,” Zachary snapped, his tone sharper than usual.
Tristan blinked, taken aback. Zachary rarely scolded him, especially when he insulted Charlotte. Mutinous, the boy grabbed a box of cereal from the pantry, poured it dry into a bowl without milk, and slammed the carton down.
At 8:30 AM, Zachary sat at his office desk downtown, staring at his computer screen. Try as he might, he couldn't focus on the quarterly financial reports. His phone lay face-up beside his keyboard.
No text from Charlotte. No apology. No check-in.
By noon, his pride finally cracked. He picked up his phone and dialed her number.
“The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable or out of service area.”
He tried again. Same automated message.
Frustrated, he opened WhatsApp and clicked on her chat. He typed: “Stop playing games, Charlotte. Bring Chloe home by tonight. Tristan has a game this weekend, and you need to handle the laundry. This has gone far enough.”
He hit send.
A grey checkmark appeared. Then another.
Minutes passed. No reply.
At 2:00 PM, his mother called.
“Zachary, what is going on?” her voice crackled over the speaker. “I called Charlotte to ask her to pick up some dry cleaning for your father’s event this weekend, and her phone went straight to voicemail. Did you two have another one of your little domestic disputes?”
“She left, Mom,” Zachary said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Left? Where?”
“To her sister’s, probably. She’s throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn’t let her coddle Chloe over the chicken incident.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Good grief! A grown woman acting like an adolescent because of a chicken drumstick? This is what happens when you marry beneath your social circle, Zachary. Her family never had any discipline. Well, let her stay there for a few days. She’ll starve without your credit card and come running back with her tail between her legs.”
May you like
“Yeah,” Zachary muttered, though the reassurance felt hollow in his mouth. “She’ll be back by Monday.”
He was wrong. Monday came and went. And Tuesday brought a registered mail envelope to his office that made the blood run cold in his veins.
