Chapter 2: Runaway Mrs. Whitmore

Three years ago, Carter was pressured into marriage by his family—old money, old rules, and a board that wanted stability. He picked me: a fresh college grad, naïve, easy to manage, no agenda, and most importantly, desperate for money. They put me in a white dress and slid me into a world where the elevators never had fingerprints.

In the three years I’d been Mrs. Whitmore, I’d always played by the rules—never making trouble, always doing my best to fit the role. We were husband and wife in name only. Carter had someone else in his heart. I’d always known that. So for three years, he never touched me. We were two signatures on a contract—parallel lines, never intersecting.

I loved this kind of life. No need to work, no corporate grind, just lounging in our Fifth Avenue penthouse while the money rolled in. Besides the fixed $20,000 monthly allowance he gave me, Carter often took me shopping. Officially, it was to keep up appearances for the Whitmore family, but all those clothes, jewelry, and bags—he never asked for any of it back. They were really mine. I learned the rhythm of quiet luxury: silk, hushed hallways, and the soft thud of boxes at the door.

I was supposed to enjoy two more years of this. But two weeks ago, on Carter’s birthday, he got drunk and I used it as an excuse—said he mistook me for his ex. That’s how all this started. A single lie can echo through an empire if you aim it right.

I didn’t let Carter tell his family about my pregnancy. “It’s not stable yet. No need to get Grandpa and the others worked up for nothing. We can wait until the three-month mark.” I said it sweetly, painting prudence as my default—mostly to avoid the media and family scrutiny I knew would follow.

He agreed, thinking it made sense. Logic soothes men like him.

After learning I was pregnant, Carter started coming home to the penthouse a lot more. Before, he’d show up maybe two or three times a month. Now, it was two or three times a week. He was a little neurotic, always worried I’d bump into something and hurt the baby. He’d linger in doorways, hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover.

Every day, he’d look at my still-flat stomach and ask, “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” He was relentless, as if the answer might move the stock market.

He asked so much I finally snapped, “Boy.” I didn’t even look up from my book.

He sulked all night. I found out later he actually wanted a girl. He had a soft spot for little pink sneakers and pigtails.

After two weeks of being treated like a queen, his first love came back. The air in the penthouse changed; everyone moved quieter, like the walls were listening.

The day Ava Monroe returned to New York, Carter paced the penthouse for ages, moving from window to window as if the skyline might offer answers.

I asked, “Aren’t you going to pick her up?” My voice was gentle, neutral, like handing him a glass of water.

He hesitated, glancing at me. His hand clenched tight around his phone.

I smiled gently. “It’s fine. The baby and I are both pretty chill.” I even gave my belly a pat for effect.

In the end, he went. As soon as he left, I dashed upstairs, grabbed my already-packed suitcase, and left my signed divorce papers on the coffee table with a note. The paper looked stark against the black marble—final, like a judge’s gavel.

I caught a late-night flight to Boston and hid at a friend’s place for six months. Finally, after my friend’s relentless nagging, I went out for the first time in ages. At a high-end club, I arranged for two young male models—promoter favorites, paid to be charming. Just as I was getting cozy between them, the door to the private room swung open. The music in my head screeched to a halt.

The man who walked in was ice-cold. He stared at me for a long moment, then gave a faint, dangerous smile. “Darling, you were hard to find.” He didn’t need to raise his voice; he never did.