Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
“Mrs. Vascari?”
Sophia’s voice was cautious.
I looked up from the spotless kitchen counter.
“Yes?”
“Would you like me to warm your dinner?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Sophia studied me.
She had worked for Roman’s family since before I married him. She had seen funerals, arrests, weddings, christenings, and more men in expensive suits carrying guns than any housekeeper should ever have to acknowledge.
She knew when silence was dangerous.
“Perhaps you should go upstairs,” she said. “Your ankles are swollen.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re thirty-seven weeks pregnant.”
“I’m aware.”
I picked up my phone.
No messages from Roman.
It was 8:17 p.m.
Three hours since he left.
I opened our text thread.
The last message from him had come that morning.
Don’t drive anywhere today. Roads are supposed to ice over.
Not Merry Christmas Eve.
Not How are you feeling?
An instruction.
Of course.
I stared at it until anger started burning through the numbness.
Then my phone buzzed.
For one foolish second, hope shot through me.
It wasn’t Roman.
It was a message from an unknown number.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
I opened it.
And my entire body went cold.
Roman stood beneath the awning of a downtown hotel.
Snow blurred the street behind him.
Celeste was in his arms.
Not beside him.
Not shaking his hand.
In his arms.
Her face was pressed against his chest.
One of Roman’s hands rested against the back of her head.
The other wrapped around her waist.
His mouth was near her hair.
The photograph was taken from across the street.
Close enough that I could see the watch I had given him on our second anniversary.
I stopped breathing.
“Mrs. Vascari?”
Sophia moved toward me.
I turned the screen facedown.
Too late.
She had seen enough.
“Savannah.”
She almost never used my first name.
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Tell me there could be an explanation.”
She went silent.
Because there are moments when kindness becomes another form of cruelty.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, there was text.
YOU DESERVE TO KNOW WHAT YOUR HUSBAND DOES WHEN HE THINKS YOU’RE SAFE AT HOME.
Below it was a location.
The Langford Hotel.
I knew it.
Roman’s companies used its private conference rooms for meetings.
I looked at the photograph again.
Something in me wanted to scream.
Instead, I zoomed in.
Celeste’s hand was gripping Roman’s coat.
Her face was mostly hidden.
Roman’s expression was visible.
Tense.
Focused.
Not romantic.
I noticed that.
And hated myself for noticing.
Because I had spent months finding explanations.
Business.
Security.
Stress.
Pregnancy hormones.
Timing.
Enemies.
There was always a reason.
A woman could disappear inside reasons.
I set the phone down.
Sophia said quietly, “Call him.”
“No.”
“Savannah—”
“No.”
I walked out of the kitchen.
My hospital bag sat beside the staircase.
Roman had insisted it remain there after thirty-six weeks.
Packed.
Inventoried.
Ready.
He had personally checked the car seat installation twice.
He had purchased three identical hospital bags because he didn’t trust the first company’s zipper.
That was Roman.
Prepared for every disaster except the ones he created himself.
I climbed the stairs slowly.
In our bedroom, the charcoal sweater I had laid out for him remained on the bed.
I touched the sleeve.
Then opened the closet.
My suitcase was on the top shelf.
I pulled it down.
Twenty minutes later, I had packed enough for several days.
Not jewelry.
Not designer shoes.
Not the clothes Roman had bought me for events I hated.
Maternity leggings.
Sweaters.
Toiletries.
My passport.
Medication.
The folder containing my prenatal records.
And the little knitted hat I had bought for our daughter without telling Roman because he thought newborn clothes should be “hospital approved.”
I almost laughed.
Then cried instead.
It lasted less than a minute.
That frightened me more.
I walked into the nursery.
Roman had designed most of it.
Cream walls.
Walnut crib.
A hand-painted mural of the Chicago skyline beneath stars.
Nothing pink because he claimed color stereotypes were “commercial nonsense.”
But hidden inside the dresser was a ridiculous pink blanket I had caught him buying online at two in the morning.
I sat in the rocking chair.
Our daughter moved.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
My voice broke.
“I don’t know what happens next.”
Her foot pressed against my palm.
For months, Roman had decided what happened next.
Which doctor.
Which hospital.
Which security vehicle.
Which routes I could take.
What events were safe.
Who could visit.
When I could leave the estate without an escort.
He always explained it the same way.
I need you safe.
And because I loved him, I let safety become permission.
That night, for the first time, I understood that I didn’t need his permission to leave.
I took off my wedding ring.
My hand looked strange without it.
There was a pale indentation around my finger.
I carried the ring downstairs.
Sophia stood near the Christmas tree.
She saw my suitcase.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Where will you go?”
“Somewhere Roman doesn’t control.”
“That eliminates half of Illinois.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
Then she crossed the room and took both of my hands.
“You cannot drive in this weather.”
“I’m not.”
“Who are you calling?”
I hesitated.
Then dialed the only person I trusted who had no financial relationship with Roman.
My college roommate, Dr. Maya Chen.
Maya worked as an obstetrician at a hospital in Evanston.
She answered on the second ring.
“Merry Christmas, mama.”
I burst into tears.
Twenty-five minutes later, she was on her way.
I left my ring beneath the Christmas tree.
Not dramatically.
No letter.
No shattered photograph.
Just the ring on a folded napkin beside the gift Roman had bought for me.
At 9:26 p.m., Sophia hugged me at the front door.
“If he asks where you went—”
“You don’t know.”
Her eyes widened.
“Savannah.”
“You don’t.”
She understood.
Roman’s employees feared lying to him.
I wasn’t asking her to lie.
I was giving her the truth.
I had not told her where I was going.
Maya pulled up in an old gray Volvo that Roman’s security system probably considered an insult.
I climbed inside.
“You okay?” she asked.
“No.”
“Baby moving?”
“Yes.”
“Contractions?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Then we deal with one disaster at a time.”
We drove away.
As the estate disappeared behind falling snow, I looked back once.
I thought leaving would feel terrifying.
Instead, I could breathe.
For the first time in months, nobody knew exactly where I was.
At 11:53 p.m., Roman finally came home.
I know what happened because Sophia told me later.
He entered carrying snow on his shoulders.
“Savannah?”
No answer.
He checked the kitchen.
Dining room.
Library.
Then climbed the stairs.
Our bedroom was empty.
My closet door was open.
The nursery door stood wide.
He came back downstairs faster.
“Sophia.”
She emerged from the pantry.
“Where is my wife?”
“She left.”
The words apparently stopped him cold.
“With who?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“When?”
“About two hours ago.”
Roman reached for his phone.
Sophia said, “She left something.”
He turned.
Then saw the ring.
She told me his face changed.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Something much worse.
Fear.
He picked it up.
“Why?”
Sophia looked directly at the most feared man she had ever worked for.
And told him the truth.
“She saw the photograph.”
Roman went still.
“What photograph?”
“She saw you holding Miss Armand.”
He swore once.
Then called me.
My phone was already off.
He called again.
Again.
Again.
By midnight, every security team attached to his estate was moving.
By 12:30, Roman’s men were checking hospitals, hotels, airports, train stations, and every property owned by someone close to me.
By 1:00 a.m., he had called Maya.
She didn’t answer.
By 1:15, Roman reportedly smashed a phone against the wall.
At 2:06, he did something none of his employees had ever seen him do.
He begged.
“Find her.”
Not shouted.
Not ordered.
Begged.
“Please.”
At the same time, I was sitting in Maya’s guest room twenty-seven miles away, wearing borrowed pajamas while snow hit the windows.
My phone remained powered off on the dresser.
Maya handed me tea.
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“Then talk.”
I looked at my stomach.
“I think my husband is having an affair.”
“You think?”
“I saw him holding her.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I looked at her.
Maya knew me too well.
“I don’t know.”
“Then what do you know?”
I stared toward the dark window.
“I know I asked him to stay.”
My throat tightened.
“And he left.”
Maya sat beside me.
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
It mattered more than the photograph.
More than Celeste.
More than whatever explanation Roman eventually produced.
I placed a hand over my daughter.
Then pain tightened across my abdomen.
I inhaled sharply.
Maya looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Savannah.”
Another tightening came.
Stronger.
I checked the clock.
Two twenty-one.
Maya stood.
“Was that a contraction?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been having Braxton Hicks.”
“This felt different.”
“How long?”
“Maybe forty seconds.”
She took my wrist and watched me.
Seven minutes later, another came.
Maya’s expression changed.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I need you to stay calm.”
That is something doctors say immediately before nobody stays calm.
“Maya.”
“You might be in early labor.”
My heart started pounding.
“No.”
“You’re thirty-seven weeks. That’s not necessarily dangerous.”
“Roman doesn’t know where I am.”
Maya went quiet.
Another contraction began.
I gripped the blanket.
And twenty-seven miles away, my husband was tearing Chicago apart looking for me.
Neither of us knew yet that someone else had been watching both of us all night.
The anonymous photograph had not been sent to expose Roman.
May you like
It had been sent to make me leave his protection.
And I had done exactly what they wanted.
