Chapter 4 - The Iron Wall of Manhattan
By ten o'clock that morning, Dante’s sleek black sedan was cutting aggressively through the dense Manhattan traffic, racing toward the towering glass spire of Altamira Tower.
His phone had rung forty-two times in the last three hours—all missed calls to my number, all going straight to voicemail. He had sent frantic text messages, demanding to know where I was, alternating between cold commands and desperate pleas, none of which received a single syllable in response.
When the car slid to a halt outside the corporate headquarters, Dante practically tore the door open, ignoring his security detail as he strode into the private elevators and punched the penthouse button for the executive suites.
He burst into his private office, expecting to find me sitting at my architectural desk or waiting in the adjacent conference room.
The office was completely empty.
Instead of me, his corporate secretary, Elena, stood near the doorway holding a thick manila envelope with a pale, frightened expression.
"Mr. Moretti... thank goodness you're here," Elena stammered, stepping back nervously. "There was a courier delivery for you ten minutes ago from Arthur Vance’s law firm."
Dante snatched the envelope out of her hands so violently that the paper tore slightly at the edge. He pulled out the heavy legal documents inside and scanned the bold headings.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.
STIPULATION OF SEPARATE MAINTENANCE AND PROPERTY RESTRAINT.
My signature was at the bottom of every single page—clean, steady, and unyielding.
Dante’s breath caught in his throat. His hands shook as he flipped to the financial disclosures. I wasn't asking for a single dime of the Moretti family empire or the corporate assets. I had formally waived all rights to spousal support, demanding only the immediate division of my personal pre-marital assets, the return of my family heirlooms, and an absolute restraining order preventing any member of the Moretti family from contacting me or approaching my private residence.
It wasn't a standard, messy divorce filing designed to squeeze money out of a wealthy dynasty. It was a surgical, ice-cold extraction.
"Get Arthur Vance on the phone right now," Dante snarled, slamming the papers down onto his mahogany desk so hard the glass paperweights rattled.
Elena flinched. "I... I already tried, Mr. Moretti. Mr. Vance’s office said he represents Mrs. Moretti exclusively in this matter, and any communication must go through legal channels. Furthermore... Mrs. Moretti has already retained full security detail through a private agency. She cannot be reached."
Dante stood alone in the massive glass-walled office, looking out over the panoramic view of the New York skyline where the morning sun glinted off the Hudson River.
For four years, he had believed he was the master of his own universe—a man who could balance old loyalties, past history, and a devoted wife without ever paying a price. Now, the bill had arrived, and the cost was higher than anything money could buy.
He pulled out his phone, bypassing my number entirely, and dialed a contact he hadn't used in years.
May you like
"Celeste," Dante said the moment the line connected, his voice cold enough to freeze liquid nitrogen. "Pack your things. Get out of my house before noon."
Before she could sputter an indignant reply, Dante hung up the phone, threw it against the wall, where it shattered into a dozen plastic pieces, and stared into the empty glass.
