Chapter 3: The Thirty-Minute Window
The engine of my car roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that mirrored the sudden, violent awakening in my chest. As I pulled out of the winding driveway and merged onto the Interstate, I rolled the window down just an inch. The freezing Chicago air whipped across my face, and for the first time in seven years, I took a real, deep breath of absolute freedom.
I pressed the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel. The phone rang twice before a sharp, authoritative voice answered.
“Marcus,” I said. My voice was entirely devoid of emotion.
Marcus Thorne was the most ruthless, elite divorce attorney in Cook County. I had consulted him secretly a year ago, terrified and hesitant, but Richard had intercepted my emails and manipulated me into staying. Today, there was no hesitation.
“Samantha. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Execute the nuclear option,” I commanded, my eyes fixed on the gray ribbon of highway unfolding before me. “Empty every joint account and transfer my exact legal half into the offshore trust we established. Liquidate the shared stock portfolios. Cancel his supplementary health insurance policies—the premium ones that are technically owned under the umbrella of my architectural LLC.”
“Samantha, that’s aggressive. Are you sure?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting from polite to highly alert.
“I have nevcer been more sure of anything in my entire life,” I replied smoothly. “Furthermore, file the at-fault divorce papers immediately, citing admitted infidelity. I want him legally locked out of the Lake Geneva summer home by noon tomorrow. And Marcus? Hire a forensic accountant. I want every dime he’s spent on his mistress tracked, categorized, and clawed back in the settlement.”
“Consider it done. Are you safe?”
“I am perfectly fine,” I said. “Just working on a new demolition project.”
Miles behind me, inside the sprawling, silent house, the vintage Dom Pérignon suddenly tasted like ash in Richard’s mouth. He had scoffed at my parting words, assuming it was the desperate deflection of a dying woman. But a tiny, nagging seed of doubt had been planted.
He set his crystal flute down on the marble counter. He slid his Tom Ford glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He smoothed out the first page of the oncology report, his eyes bypassing the bolded ‘Stage IV’ diagnosis in the center, and scanning up to the top right corner where the patient data was neatly printed in a smaller font.
The blood drained from his face in a single, terrifying rush.
Patient Name: Richard Thomas Hayes.
DOB: 10/14/1981.
Sex: Male.
Referring Physician: Dr. Aris Thorne, Executive Health Group.
Diagnosis: Stage IV Pancreatic Adenocarcinoma. Metastatic. Inoperable.
The expensive reading glasses slipped from his fingers, clattering against the marble. A second later, the crystal flute was swept off the bar by his trembling hand, shattering violently against the hardwood floor.
His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, a phantom pain, a deep, gnawing ache that he had been ignoring for months and blaming on stress and expensive scotch, bloomed fiercely beneath his ribs.
It wasn’t me. It was him.
He was the one dying. And in his monumental arrogance, he had just brutally confessed his long-term affair, celebrated his impending widower status, and permanently alienated the only person on earth who had ever genuinely cared for him.
Thirty minutes later, I was cruising toward downtown Chicago when the digital dashboard of my car lit up.
Incoming Call: Richard.
I let it ring out. Ten seconds later, it lit up again. And again. And again. By the time I reached the city limits, he had called twenty times. By the time I navigated the downtown traffic, it was forty.
He began leaving voicemails. The notifications pinged rapidly on my screen. I pressed play on the latest one, the audio filling the pristine cabin of my car.
“Sam! Sam, oh my god, please!” The voice that came through the speakers was unrecognizable. It wasn’t the polished, arrogant sneer of the investment banker. It was the hysterical, high-pitched wail of a terrified animal. He was sobbing loudly, gasping for air between words. “Sam, please, I misread it! It was a mistake, I was joking, I swear to God I was joking! I need you. I’m dying, Sam, I have pancreatic cancer, it’s everywhere! Please, my cards are declining, the bank says the accounts are frozen, what did you do?! Sam, please pick up, I’m begging you!”
I pulled my car into the valet line of a luxury downtown hotel, the kind with thick carpets and a concierge who knew how to keep a secret. The valet opened my door. I stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, listening to his frantic, weeping voice echo from the car’s speakers.
“I don’t want to die alone, Sam! Please!”
I reached back into the car, tapped my phone screen, and calmly pressed a single, deeply satisfying button: Block Caller.
