Chapter 3 - The Morning of the Cold War
The sun rose over the sprawling estate,
painting the Connecticut sky in shades of pale pink and gold,
but the warmth of the morning did not reach inside the mansion.
The house felt different today,
lighter in some ways,
heavier in others,
buzzing with the silent gossip of the staff.
Everyone knew Victoria had been exiled to the guest house,
everyone knew I had returned unexpectedly,
but nobody dared to speak a word about it.
I walked down the grand staircase,
dressed in a crisp,
dark tailored suit,
ready to face the consequences of last night's actions.
In the kitchen,
the chef was moving quietly,
preparing breakfast with an unusual level of caution.
Sarah was sitting at the small island counter,
feeding Ethan his oatmeal,
laughing softly as he smeared food across his chin.
It was a beautiful sight,
a picture of domestic peace that I had never experienced with my own wife.
I stood in the doorway for a moment,
watching them,
allowing myself a rare second of genuine happiness.
Ethan saw me,
his eyes lighting up,
and he slammed his small hands on the highchair tray.
"Dada!"
he babbled,
a huge,
messy smile spreading across his face.
I smiled back,
walking over to him,
taking a napkin to wipe his chin.
"Good morning,
buddy,"
I said,
kissing the top of his head,
breathing in the sweet scent of baby shampoo.
Sarah stood up quickly,
wiping her hands on her apron,
looking suddenly nervous in my presence.
"Good morning,
Mr. Bennett,"
she said,
her voice respectful,
always mindful of the boundaries.
"Sit down,
Sarah,"
I told her,
pouring myself a cup of black coffee.
"We have a lot to discuss today,
and I need you to be comfortable."
Before she could answer,
the heavy oak doors of the kitchen swung open,
and Marcus walked in.
His face was grim,
his eyes dark,
carrying a leather folder under his arm.
He glanced at Sarah,
then looked at me,
giving a subtle nod that meant he had found something bad.
"Take Ethan to the playroom,
Sarah,"
I instructed,
my tone shifting instantly back to business.
She nodded,
picking up the baby quickly,
and hurried out of the kitchen,
sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere.
Once the doors closed behind them,
I turned to Marcus,
taking a slow sip of my bitter coffee.
"What did you find?"
I asked,
bracing myself for the worst.
Marcus opened the folder,
pulling out a stack of printed emails,
bank statements,
and photographs.
"She was not just neglecting him,
Boss,"
Marcus said,
his voice filled with a cold,
simmering anger.
"She was trying to get rid of him."
I put my coffee cup down,
the ceramic clicking sharply against the granite countertop.
"Explain,"
I demanded,
my blood turning to ice.
"For the past three months,
she has been communicating with an exclusive,
off-the-grid boarding facility in Switzerland,"
Marcus explained,
pointing to the highlighted sections of the documents.
"They specialize in raising children from birth,
keeping them entirely separated from their families until they are teenagers."
I stared at the papers,
the letters blurring together,
a blinding rage taking over my vision.
She wanted to send my son away,
across the ocean,
to be raised by strangers in a sterile facility,
just so she wouldn't have to deal with him.
"She forged your signature on the preliminary consent forms,
Michael,"
Marcus added,
dropping the final,
devastating piece of evidence onto the counter.
I picked up the paper,
staring at my own perfectly forged handwriting,
realizing the depth of her betrayal.
"She planned to have him taken next week,
while you were scheduled to be in Europe,"
Marcus finished,
waiting for my orders.
I slowly tore the paper in half,
then in quarters,
letting the pieces fall to the floor.
"Double the guards on the guest house,"
I ordered,
my voice eerily calm,
the calm before a catastrophic storm.
"No one goes in,
May you like
no one comes out,
and cut the landline."
