A Rainy Departure

Banjo

The rain was coming down in thick sheets, slamming against the tall glass walls of the third floor study, it felt as if the rain understood what was happening. I stood by the window, a heavy crystal glass of scotch untouched in my hand. The quiet in the Vance mansion was heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the steady, low rumble of thunder echoing across the Zurich hills. Downstairs, the vast hallways felt entirely empty, stripped of whatever warmth they had ever pretended to hold.

My chest felt tight, constricted by a strange, hollow ache that I couldn't quite explain.

It didn't make any sense. I had won.

The signed divorce decree sat on my

desk right behind me, alongside the land deed to St. Judes. Everything I had worked for, everything I had fought to secure for Tahlia’s future, was finally in my hands. Merinda was gone. The quiet, troublesome ghost who had occupied the north wing of my home for three long years had finally been erased from my life.

So why did the house feel so terribly cold? Why did my stomach turn with a bitter, sickening weight every time I looked at those signed papers?

I took a slow swallow of the scotch, trying to burn away the uneasy knot in my throat, but the alcohol tasted flat, like ash on my tongue.

Far down below, at the base of the long concrete driveway, the gate slowly slid open.

A single figure emerged from the side entrance of the estate.

It was Merinda.

She wore a simple, dark wool coat pulled tight against the freezing wind, her dark hair pinned up, though a few stray strands whipped wildly around her face in the storm. She didn't have a security guard with her. She didn't have a convoy of lawyers or a fleet of luggage carts. She was rolling a single, small black suitcase behind her, its tiny wheels splashing through the deep puddles on the gravel path.

I gripped the cold glass tighter, my knuckles turning stark white.

Three years. She had spent three years living under this roof as my wife. She had arrived here with trunk after trunk of her family’s legacy, carrying the quiet, foolish hope that our forced marriage might somehow turn into a real life. And now, she was leaving with nothing more than a single suitcase, walking out into a rainstorm without once looking back at the house that had been her prison.

Let her walk, a cold voice whispered in the back of my mind. She brought this on herself. She tried to ruin Lawson Global. She tried to tear down everything you built.

Yet, as I watched her small frame battle against the biting Zurich wind, a sudden, unnatural pang struck me hard in my chest. It felt as though I were standing on the edge of a high cliff, watching the ground beneath my feet slowly begin to crumble into the sea.

I shook my head, forcing the feeling down, burying it deep beneath my usual wall of arrogant control.

It was ridiculous. She was a penniless, broken woman whose family syndicate had fallen apart years ago. She had no money left, no powerful allies, and no home to return to. The land she loved so much now belonged to Vance Enterprises. She was walking away into the cold wet dark, defeated and completely stripped of power.

She has nothing left to fight with, I told myself, staring intently at her back. You gave her a way out, and she took it.

Down at the gate, a sleek, unmarked black sedan pulled up smoothly to the curb.

The rear passenger door swung open. Merinda stopped at the edge of the road, her hand resting on the handle of her suitcase. For a fraction of a second, she paused, her head tilting slightly upward, toward the third floor study window where I stood hidden behind the tinted glass.

Even from this distance, even through the dark, blurring sheets of falling rain, I could feel the sheer, freezing intensity of her eyes locking straight onto mine. She didn't look broken. She didn't look like a woman who had just lost everything. Her posture was erect, her shoulders square, carrying an unmistakable, terrifying grace.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. My heart gave a heavy, violent thud against my ribs.

I took a sharp step back from the window, pulling myself into the shadows of the room, my breathing suddenly fast and shallow.

By the time I forced myself to look back out, the black sedan was already speeding away down the wet asphalt, its red taillights fading rapidly into the thick gray fog of the valley.

I turned away from the window, setting my glass down on the mahogany desk with a harsh, trembling clatter. I took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my suit jacket, trying to shake off the strange, lingering dread that clung to the air like a heavy fog.

I reached for the internal intercom button on my desk, pressing it firmly. "Jarrah. Bring the car around. We need to finalize the transfer of the St. Judes title before the land registry offices close for the evening."

Static buzzed softly through the speaker.

Silence.

I frowned, leaning closer to the unit, pressing the button again, harder this time. "Jarrah? Are you downstairs?"

Nothing. Only the soft, rhythmic hum of the empty house.

Annoyance flashed through me, cutting through the strange anxiety in my chest. Jarrah never ignored an internal call. He had served my father for decades and had been at my side since the day I took over Vance Enterprises.

I pulled open my study door and stepped out onto the wide marble balcony overlooking the central foyer. "Jarrah!" I called out, my baritone voice echoing off the tall, empty concrete walls.

No answer came.

A strange, unnatural chill swept through the grand hallway. The heavy double doors leading to Jarrah’s private office at the end of the corridor stood slightly open, a thin sliver of warm light spilling out onto the polished floor.

I walked slowly down the grand staircase, my shoes clicking loudly against the cold marble. The house felt too big, too quiet, as if every living thing had been drained out of it the moment Merinda stepped past the iron gates.

I reached Jarrah’s office door and pushed it open with my hand. "Jarrah, why aren't you answering the"

The words froze instantly in my throat.

The air inside the room smelled faintly of bitter almonds and stale tea.

Jarrah sat slumped back in his heavy high backed leather chair behind his desk. His head was tilted awkwardly backward, his dark eyes wide open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. His hands rested limp on the desk, completely frozen in time.

My blood ran instantly cold. "Jarrah?" I rasped, taking a slow, terrified step toward the desk. "Jarrah, get up!"

He didn't move. He wasn't breathing.

My eyes dropped frantically down to the center of his desk, where a small porcelain teacup lay spilled over, dark liquid soaking into a fresh piece of paper. Beside the cup sat a thick white envelope, completely untouched by the spill.

It was addressed to me in sharp, elegant handwriting that made my soul freeze in my chest.

Written in dark blue ink on the front were the words: To my husband, Banjo. A wedding gift.

Before I could reach out my hand to touch the paper, my cell phone in my pocket began to ring, its sudden, loud vibration piercing through the silent death of the room like a scream.