After Seven Empty Chairs, I Took My Daughter and Left Chapter 04

After Seven Empty Chairs, I Took My Daughter and Left Chapter 04

I carried my handbag downstairs, and Boston’s cold night air rushed over my face. The Uber map showed the driver was three minutes away.

Just then, Sloane ran after me and grabbed my hand. Her fingertips were icy, just like the fake smile on her face.

“Are you angry? Don’t be like this, Ava.” She shoved two symphony tickets into my hand. “Take them. Noah was just keeping me company. He still has you in his heart. Your marriage is the face of the Whitaker family, after all. It won’t hurt to keep a few good memories.”

I pulled my hand free, letting the expensive tickets flutter to the ground.

“No, thank you,” I said, looking at her. My voice was as cold as the thin ice on the Charles River in winter. “After the divorce, I plan to forget the past. There’s nothing between him and me worth remembering.”

Sloane’s smile stiffened for a second before sharpening into open superiority.

“That’s quite a thing to say. True, Noah only got together with you because I set it up, but you did help me fend off a lot of unnecessary trouble. It’s one thing that you couldn’t win his love. But if you can’t even keep a few dignified memories as Mrs. Whitaker, then I’d be too cruel.”

She kept offering that hypocritical “comfort” while blocking my way to the curb, refusing to let me leave.

In the instant we were tangled together, a homeless man in a tattered hoodie suddenly rushed out from the shadows of a corner. His target was obvious: Sloane, or rather, the conspicuous Hermès Birkin on her arm.

“Ah!” Sloane screamed.

Almost at the same moment, Noah charged out of the club’s entrance.

I didn’t even see him move. I only felt a tremendous force shove me aside.

No. He wasn’t pushing me.

He was rushing toward Sloane, shielding her with his body. The force of his momentum was what knocked me down.

The moment I lost my balance, my only thought was of Lily. I couldn’t get hurt. I still had to complete her adoption. I had to protect her future.

Instinctively, I curled my body to protect my stomach and braced my arm against the hard, freezing sidewalk.

Crack.

The crisp sound of bone splitting was followed by a pain in my wrist so sharp it blackened my vision.

I collapsed to the ground, cold sweat instantly soaking my back. My sight began to blur. Before I lost consciousness, the last thing I saw was Noah taking off his expensive Zegna suit jacket and gently draping it over a trembling, terrified Sloane, murmuring words of comfort.

And I lay less than five feet away from them, like a piece of garbage tossed to the curb.

He didn’t even glance in my direction.

…

When I opened my eyes again, the scent of disinfectant filled the room at Massachusetts General Hospital.

The first thing I saw was Noah’s face, etched with worry and exhaustion.

“Ava? How do you feel? You were unconscious for almost a full day. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” He held my uninjured hand, his voice hoarse, his eyes bloodshot.

Looking at his performance of deep concern, I thought of the scene just before I passed out, and a wave of nausea washed over me.

At the first sign of danger, the person he chose to protect, without hesitation, was not me. I had fallen to the ground with a fractured wrist, in so much pain I lost consciousness, and he hadn’t even noticed.

How could I trust his “worry” now?

I gently withdrew my hand and spoke, my voice hoarse. “I’m fine. How is Sloane? She must have been terrified. You should go take care of her.”

Noah froze for a moment, then immediately explained, “She’s fine. Just a little shaken. You’re the one who’s badly hurt. Of course I’m staying here to take care of you.”

I pulled the corner of my mouth into a mocking smile, then closed my eyes and said only that I was tired.

Noah didn’t disturb me again. He considerately tucked in my blanket, poured me a glass of ice water and placed it on the bedside table, then ordered lobster bisque from a nearby Michelin-starred restaurant on Grubhub.

After doing all that, he took a call. His tone instantly turned anxious.

“What? The server was attacked? I’ll handle it right away. Send the report to my email.”

After hanging up, he looked at me apologetically.

“Ava, I’m sorry. There’s an urgent company email I have to deal with. I have to go. I’ll bring breakfast first thing tomorrow morning.”

I couldn’t even be bothered to open my eyes.

A young nurse came in for rounds. Seeing the elegant soup on the bedside table and Noah’s retreating back, she couldn’t help but say with envy, “Your husband is so good to you. Handsome and thoughtful. He’s practically the perfect husband.”

I said nothing.

Before the soup had cooled, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification.

I opened it. A direct message from Sloane.

“Sorry, Ava. That robbery gave me a little PTSD, and Noah was worried about leaving me alone, so he insisted on taking me shopping to calm my nerves. Rest well in the hospital.”

The attached photo was from the Cartier counter on Newbury Street. A familiar, beautifully jointed hand was gently fastening a brand-new LOVE bracelet around Sloane’s slender wrist.

In the background, Noah’s profile was fixed in a focused, indulgent smile.

So the so-called “urgent email” was taking his first love to buy a new bracelet.

I stared quietly at the blinding photo and typed two words with my fingertips.

“Have fun.”

Over the following week, Noah did come to the hospital every day. He usually arrived at lunchtime, carrying expensive takeout, and would sit for ten minutes, asking a few questions like, “How’s your recovery?” before hurrying away with the excuse of meetings and phone calls.

Meanwhile, Sloane’s Instagram was like a running series, reporting their movements on schedule.

Noah took her to Nantucket for the weekend and took hundreds of photos of her against the sunset.

Noah picnicked with her on the lawns of Beacon Hill, preparing her favorite French desserts as if coaxing a child.

Noah even canceled an important meeting with the Whitaker family trust manager because Sloane said she wanted to see a touring Broadway show.

Everything he did was filled with careful protection and limitless indulgence.

And none of it had ever existed in our marriage.

Love and the absence of love, it turned out, could be so cleanly divided.

I leaned against the hospital bed and looked out at the Boston sky. For the first time, I was deeply grateful that I had already started the divorce proceedings.

The doctor came in with my X-rays and discharge papers to complete the final examination.

“You’re recovering well. Nothing major,” he said, handing me a prescription and a thick stack of insurance bills. “Have your husband go down to the billing center to handle the discharge, and he can stop by CVS to pick up your medication.”

I took the papers. My voice was as flat as a cup of cold water.

“He’s not my husband. We’re divorced.”

The moment the words left my mouth, the door to the ward opened.

Noah walked in carrying a thermos. The smile on his face froze completely when he heard what I said.

He stared at me in shock, then at the doctor, his voice full of disbelief.

“Divorced? What do you mean, divorced?”