Chapter 2 - The Ring Beneath the Tree
Roman called seventeen times before midnight.
I counted every one.
I answered none.
At 12:06, he sent his first message.
Where are you?
At 12:08:
Savannah, answer the phone.
At 12:11:
This isn't funny.
That message almost made me laugh.
Not because anything was funny.
Because Roman genuinely believed my disappearance might be a performance designed to get his attention.
He couldn't imagine that I had finally stopped wanting it.
Margaret drove in silence while I watched Chicago disappear behind us.
The roads were slick. Christmas lights blurred through falling snow. Every few minutes, I felt a tightening across my stomach and told myself it was stress.
My due date wasn't for another three weeks.
Our daughter needed time.
So did I.
The house in Evanston had belonged to my mother before she died. It wasn't large. Two bedrooms, faded blue shutters, an old stone fireplace, and a narrow view of Lake Michigan through bare trees.
Roman had been inside it exactly once.
The afternoon after our wedding.
He had stood in the kitchen, looked around, and said, "We should sell it."
I hadn't.
For years, I couldn't explain why.
That night, I understood.
Some part of me had kept one door in my life that Roman did not own.
Margaret helped me inside.
The heat took twenty minutes to warm the rooms.
I sat on the couch beneath one of my mother's old quilts.
Roman called again.
Then Claire did.
My stomach turned.
"How did she get my number?"
Margaret looked up sharply.
I rejected the call.
A message followed.
Savannah, please. I need to explain.
I deleted it.
Then I opened the message from the unknown number.
You don't know the worst part yet.
I typed one question.
Who is this?
The answer came almost immediately.
Someone who should have told you months ago.
"That's comforting," I muttered.
Margaret sat beside me.
"Block it."
"I need to know."
"Tonight?"
I looked at my stomach.
"No. Not tonight."
I switched off the phone.
For the first time in years, Roman Carter could not reach me.
I slept for less than two hours.
At four thirty Christmas morning, I woke from a dream in which I was standing in our nursery and every drawer was empty.
The house creaked around me.
My back hurt.
My throat felt raw.
I made tea and sat near the window watching snow move across the lake.
At some point Margaret joined me.
She had slept in the second bedroom.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Thank you."
"That's what friends are for."
The word made me look at her.
Friends.
Not employee.
Not housekeeper.
Friends.
"I may have gotten you fired."
Margaret snorted.
"I've wanted to quit that house for fifteen years."
"You love Roman."
"I helped raise Roman."
"Exactly."
"Those are not the same thing."
She wrapped both hands around her mug.
"I love the boy he used to be. I don't always like the man he decided to become."
I waited.
Margaret rarely talked about Roman's childhood.
He hated it.
"Was he always like this?"
"Controlling?"
I nodded.
"No."
"What happened?"
She stared out at the snow.
"That's Roman's story to tell. Not mine."
"Convenient."
"I didn't say it excused him."
Before I could answer, Margaret's phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Roman.
We stared at each other.
"Answer," I said.
"Savannah—"
"I want to hear him."
She put the call on speaker.
"Mr. Carter."
"Where is she?"
No greeting.
No Merry Christmas.
His voice was low and terrifyingly calm.
Margaret glanced at me.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't insult me, Margaret."
"You called me."
"Her coat is gone. Her hospital bag is gone. Her medication is gone."
My chest tightened.
So he had finally come home.
"You helped her."
Silence.
"Margaret."
"Yes."
His breath changed.
"Where?"
"She asked me not to tell you."
"I am her husband."
"That didn't seem particularly important to you last night."
I covered my mouth.
Roman went silent.
Then: "Put her on."
"No."
"Margaret."
"No."
I had never heard anyone say that word to Roman so easily.
He wasn't accustomed to it.
"I need to know she's safe."
"She is."
"Is the baby all right?"
I looked down.
My daughter moved beneath my hand.
Margaret said, "Yes."
His voice softened.
"Savannah shouldn't be alone right now."
I almost took the phone.
Almost.
Then I remembered Claire in his arms.
Margaret said, "She wasn't alone. She was married. There is a difference."
Roman inhaled sharply.
"I didn't sleep with Claire."
My head snapped toward the phone.
Margaret looked at me.
He continued.
"I know how it looked. I know I shouldn't have gone. But tell Savannah I didn't—"
I reached over and ended the call.
My heart hammered.
Margaret stared at me.
"Do you believe him?"
"I don't know."
That was the worst part.
I wanted the photograph to answer everything.
Instead, it raised more questions.
At the estate, Roman was standing beneath our Christmas tree with my ring in his hand.
I didn't see that moment, of course.
Margaret told me later.
So did Roman.
He said it was the first moment fear entered him.
Not anger.
Fear.
The man who could intimidate boardrooms had walked into our bedroom and found half my closet empty.
He had opened the nursery.
Seen the missing hospital bag.
Returned downstairs.
Found my ring.
He called his security chief before he called Claire.
"Find Savannah."
His head of security hesitated.
"Mr. Carter, your wife disabled location sharing."
"Then check the cars."
"She didn't take one."
"Traffic cameras."
"Sir—"
"Find her."
But for once, money wasn't enough.
Margaret had used her own car.
I'd paid cash for gas.
My mother's house was held in a family trust under my maiden name, and Roman had never bothered remembering the address.
By eight that morning, he had no idea where I was.
At nine, Claire arrived at the estate.
Margaret's replacement let her in.
Roman met her in the foyer.
I learned what happened from Claire much later.
She was still wearing the red dress beneath her coat.
"Roman, I've been calling."
"You need to leave."
Her face went white.
"After last night?"
"My wife is gone."
Claire swallowed.
"Maybe she just needs time."
"You texted her."
"I wanted to explain."
"I told you not to contact her."
"You don't get to tell me what to do after—"
"Not today."
Claire stared at the ring in Roman's hand.
"She knows?"
"She saw a picture."
Claire's expression changed.
"What picture?"
Roman looked up.
"You didn't send it?"
"No."
For the first time, both of them realized someone else had been watching.
And someone wanted me to know.
Back in Evanston, I turned my phone on shortly before noon.
One hundred and twelve notifications.
Most from Roman.
Some from people at the estate.
Three from Claire.
And one from the unknown number.
It contained an address.
A downtown apartment building.
Then another message appeared.
Ask Roman who pays the rent.
I stared at it.
My fingers went numb.
Margaret read over my shoulder.
"Savannah."
"Maybe it's her apartment."
"Maybe."
"Maybe the company owns it."
"Maybe."
"Maybe there's an explanation."
Margaret's silence said enough.
I typed:
What apartment?
The reply arrived instantly.
Unit 1904. Claire has been living there for eight months. Roman's company pays every bill.
I felt sick.
Then a second message.
There is more.
I put the phone down.
"No."
Margaret took my hand.
"You don't have to know everything today."
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't."
"I have been protected from the truth for months."
"That's different from hurting yourself with all of it at once."
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
But then my phone buzzed a third time.
This message wasn't from the anonymous number.
It was from Roman.
I know about the photograph. I know what you think happened. I will tell you everything. Just tell me you're safe.
My eyes filled.
I typed a response.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
Deleted that too.
Finally I wrote:
I'm safe. The baby is safe. Do not come looking for me.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Where are you?
I didn't answer.
Savannah, please.
Nothing.
Then:
I love you.
I stared at those three words.
For years, they had been enough to erase almost anything.
Not anymore.
I shut off the phone again.
Margaret made soup.
I couldn't eat.
At two in the afternoon, someone knocked on the front door.
Margaret froze.
So did I.
Another knock.
Not loud.
Not Roman's style.
Margaret crossed the room carefully and looked through the curtain.
"There's a woman outside."
My pulse quickened.
"Claire?"
"No."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
The woman knocked once more.
Then called through the door.
"Savannah Carter?"
I didn't move.
"My name is Julia Mason. I work for your husband."
My heart stopped.
Julia.
Roman's executive assistant.
The woman who scheduled his flights.
His dinners.
His private meetings.
The woman who knew where he was every hour of every day.
"I sent you the photograph."
Margaret looked at me.
Julia continued from the porch.
"And if you want to protect yourself and your daughter, you need to hear what I came to tell you before Roman finds out I'm here."
I stood slowly.
Because suddenly the photograph wasn't the worst part.
May you like
It was only the beginning.
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