Dominic came home at 8:47 the next morning carrying two coffees and the kind of guilt that fits neatly in a cardboard cup.
Part Two:
Dominic came home at 8:47 the next morning carrying two coffees and the kind of guilt that fits neatly in a cardboard cup.
He had bought Cynthia a caramel latte, her favorite before pregnancy. She could not drink that much caffeine anymore, but Dominic didn’t remember details like that. He remembered the version of her that served his comfort. The current version, tired and pregnant and lonely, had become background noise.
The house looked normal from the outside.
White brick. Trimmed hedges. Cynthia’s flower beds still damp from the sprinklers. His BMW fit into the driveway the way it always had.
Dominic stepped inside.
“Cynth?”
No answer.
He set the coffee on the hallway table.
The silence felt strange, but not frightening yet. He expected her to be upstairs, maybe still sleeping. Pregnancy had made her slower. He sometimes resented that, though he never said it out loud.
In the kitchen, the first wrong thing waited.
The beef bourguignon sat cold on the stove, a dark skin formed across the top.
No coffee.
No breakfast.
No Cynthia.
“Babe?” he called, louder now.
Still nothing.
He went upstairs two at a time.
Their bedroom was spotless. Bed made. Curtains open. Pillows arranged exactly the way Cynthia arranged them every morning.
Her nightstand was empty.
No prenatal vitamins.
No book.
No phone charger.
He opened her closet.
Half her clothes were gone.
Not all of them. That made it worse somehow. It wasn’t chaos. It was selection.
The comfortable maternity dresses were gone. Her jeans. Her old Denver sweatshirt. Her grandmother’s jewelry box.
Dominic’s heart began to pound.
“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no.”
He checked the bathroom.
Toothbrush gone.
Makeup bag gone.
That was when he ran to the nursery.
His hand closed around the doorknob, and for one second, some part of him already knew.
The door swung open.
Empty.
The crib was gone.
The dresser was gone.
The rocking chair, the changing table, the baskets of folded baby clothes, the stuffed bear from his mother, all gone.
Only the pale blue walls remained.
Only the name Oliver.
Only the ultrasound photo on the windowsill.
Dominic’s coffee cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the hardwood. Brown liquid spread across the floor like a stain the house itself was bleeding.
“Cynthia!”
His voice ripped through the empty room.
No answer came.
He ran through the house like panic could become a search plan. Guest rooms. Laundry room. Garage.
Her gray Honda was gone.
Back in the kitchen, he saw the envelope on the counter.
His name was written on it in Cynthia’s careful handwriting.
Inside were divorce papers.
Petition for divorce.
Emergency freeze of joint accounts.
Sole custody petition for unborn child.
No-contact request pending hearing.
He stared at the pages, his brain refusing to hold the words.
Then he saw the ring.
The diamond caught the morning light.
He had chosen that ring after three hours with a jeweler, mostly because he wanted people to notice it. Cynthia had cried when he proposed. He had loved that. He had loved being the man who could make her cry from joy.
Now the ring looked like evidence from another life.
Dominic grabbed his phone and called her.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
He called again.
Same message.
He called Melody, Cynthia’s sister in Denver.
Blocked.
He called Cynthia’s mother.
Mrs. Peterson answered on the fourth ring.
“Mrs. Peterson, it’s Dominic. I need—”
“My daughter told me what you did.”
Her voice was not loud. It was colder than that.
“Please, I need to speak to her.”
“No. You need to speak to your lawyer.”
The line went dead.
Dominic opened his banking app.
Account frozen.
He tried the savings account.
Frozen.
Their joint checking held $847. Enough to insult him. Not enough to rescue him.
His phone rang.
Vanessa.
He answered because he was drowning and grabbed the first hand that appeared.
“Dom?” she said brightly. “You sound terrible.”
“She’s gone,” he whispered.
A pause.
“Cynthia?”
“She took everything. The nursery, her car, the money. She filed for divorce.”
Another pause.
Then Vanessa said, “So… you’re free.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
That sentence should have thrilled him. It was what he had told her he wanted. Freedom. No more hiding. No more lies.
Instead, it chilled him.
“My son is gone.”
“He isn’t born yet,” Vanessa said lightly. “And honestly, this may be easier. No messy wife in the middle. Come back to the hotel. We can talk.”
We can celebrate.
She didn’t say it.
She didn’t need to.
Dominic looked down the hall toward the empty nursery.
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