After Seven Empty Chairs, I Took My Daughter and Left Chapter 01

After Seven Empty Chairs, I Took My Daughter and Left Chapter 01

“You won.”

I sent the message to my husband’s first love, Sloane, then rose to my feet in court.

Under the gaze of the judge and everyone else, I spoke slowly and clearly.

“Your Honor, I request to withdraw the joint adoption petition filed with Mr. Noah Whitaker. I will adopt my daughter alone.”

A hush fell over the courtroom.

Beside me, my daughter, Lily, was staring at her father’s empty chair, tears sliding silently down her face.

My husband, Noah, was not there. Of course.

He was with Sloane, because she was having another “panic attack.”

This was exactly what Sloane wanted.

She had made a bet with me: if Noah missed seven important events for her, leaving an empty chair in his place, I had to get out of his life.

Today, at our daughter’s final adoption hearing, was the seventh time.

She had won. And she hadn’t wasted a second sending me a message to gloat: “Seven. You lose.”

She thought I would fall apart. She thought I would cry and beg Noah to come back.

What she didn’t know was that after calmly replying, “You won,” I immediately sent a second message to my lawyer.

“Send the divorce agreement. And file for a restraining order. I don’t want him near my daughter again.”

…

The courtroom erupted.

Even the judge’s usually impassive face registered surprise. He pushed his glasses up his nose and studied me, as if to gauge my sanity.

I ignored the whispers around me. I only bent down and gently wiped the tears from Lily’s face with my handkerchief. Taking her cold little hand in mine, I said softly, “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

Then I straightened my back and, under countless looks of sympathy, shock, and barely hidden delight, walked out of the courtroom meant to decide her future, my daughter at my side.

Behind us was the seventh empty chair.

And the last.

On the drive back to the Back Bay apartment, Boston’s streets blurred past the windows. Lily had already fallen asleep in the back seat, still clutching the stuffed rabbit I had tucked into her arms that morning. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. All the memories I had forced down surged up like a tide.

Sloane and I were both Wellesley alumnae, but I first met Noah at a charity dinner in Boston. He was the heir to the Whitaker family: young, handsome, with that effortless polish that only comes from generations of old money. One glance, and I was hopelessly lost.

That night, Sloane had Noah on her arm, playing hostess as she introduced him to everyone. “This is Noah, my best friend. We grew up together.”

Yet just as everyone assumed they were a couple, she turned and kissed a drummer from some rebellious rock band, announcing to the room that he was her new boyfriend.

I still remember the shock, humiliation, and hurt that flashed across Noah’s face.

In that moment, I knew. Noah loved Sloane.

But Sloane loved wildness and excitement. She chased bad boys who could whisk her away from the suffocating dinner parties of high society. An old-fashioned, proper heir like Noah, bound by the rules of his family, was the last thing she wanted. She found him too controlling. In the end, to get rid of him for good, she found out about my crush and took on the role of matchmaker with alarming enthusiasm.

She engineered “chance” encounters, arranged one dinner after another, and did everything she could to push Noah toward me.

I watched Noah go from resisting, to numbly complying, to finally giving in. We began dating. Two years later, he proposed.

For three years, our marriage was polite. Respectful. To the outside world, we were the model couple of Boston society. A year ago, we began the process of jointly adopting Lily, the little girl we were fostering. We had been so close to having a complete family.

I’d thought that without Sloane in the picture, Noah’s heart might slowly turn toward me, toward our home.

Until a month ago, when Sloane ended yet another brief romance in Europe and returned to Boston. She invited me to afternoon tea. Stirring her coffee, her nails lacquered a vicious blood-red, she proposed a cruel wager.

“Ava, I regret it. I want Noah back. Let’s make a bet. Seven times. If he misses seven important family occasions for me and leaves seven empty chairs behind, you lose. If you lose, divorce him and give him back to me.”

As if in a trance, I agreed.

I had to know if, after all these years, there was any room in his heart for me and Lily.

And so I began counting my way to an inevitable defeat.

The first empty chair was for the social worker’s home visit—the final, critical step in the adoption. I had prepared for that meal for three days. Lily had put on her favorite princess dress. But just before the social worker knocked, Noah got a call. Sloane had “just gotten back to the country, the airport lost her luggage, and she was falling apart.” He had to go to her. At once.

The second empty chair was at Lily’s school concert. It was her first time performing as the lead, and she had been so nervous her palms were sweating. Noah had promised he would be in the front row with a video camera. But once again, because Sloane had “just been dumped and was drunk in a bar,” he chose to be absent.

The third time was the Whitaker Family Foundation’s annual portrait. He left halfway through because Sloane had “sudden, acute gastroenteritis.”

The fourth was the ceremony where I received the Boston Outstanding Women Award.

The fifth was Thanksgiving dinner.

The sixth was the interim court review for our adoption case.

Every time, he apologized and promised it would never happen again. Every time, I smiled and said, “It’s all right. Go. She needs you more.”

With every empty chair, another piece of my love for him died.

It turned out that for all these years, I had never been his wife.

I had merely been the perfect substitute while Sloane was away.

When we got home, I didn’t let myself drown in the pain. I stayed with Lily, and we took out flour, butter, and almond meal. Step by step, I taught her how to make her favorite rose macarons. When the sweet scent filled the kitchen, a smile finally appeared on her small face.

After tucking her into bed, I went into the study, closed the door, and called my lawyer.

“David, it’s me.” My voice was as calm as if I were discussing the weather.

“Ava,” David said, his voice steady. “I’ve carried out your instructions.”

“Everything was delivered?”

“Yes. The divorce papers, the petition for child support, and the temporary restraining order, citing his repeated absences from key family events. All documents were served to his office at Whitaker Group. His executive assistant signed for them.”

“Good.”

I hung up and let out a long breath.

This war Sloane had started, I ended in my own way.

At that same moment, Noah had just dropped a now “emotionally stable” Sloane at her apartment. When he returned home and saw the exquisite plate of macarons on the table, a pang of guilt hit him.

He figured Ava must be deeply hurt by what she’d done in court. He decided he would go to Cartier tomorrow and choose a necklace to make it up to her.

Just then, his phone rang. It was his assistant.

“Mr. Whitaker, we just received urgent documents from Mrs. Whitaker’s attorney. They require your immediate attention.”

A flicker of irritation went through Noah. “Are they supplemental materials for the adoption? Have Legal handle them.”

It never occurred to him that it could be anything else. In his mind, Ava was just throwing a tantrum. A little coaxing and she’d come around.

He had barely hung up when Sloane called, her voice sweet with a trace of gloating. “Noah, I heard Ava applied for single-parent adoption in court? She really knows how to make a scene.”

Noah sighed and rubbed his brow. “She’s just furious. I’ll handle it.”

“Don’t worry,” Sloane said with a light laugh, her tone dripping with the smugness of someone in control. “Women throw fits. That’s all. I actually have a plan. I guarantee that in one month, I’ll give her a surprise so big she’ll happily change her mind. Trust me?”

Noah answered without hesitation.

“Of course, Sloane. I’ll always trust you.”