Chapter 2 - The Sunrise Afterparty
The penthouse suite of the Four Seasons overlooking the Boston Public Garden smelled of stale champagne, expensive cigar smoke, and citrus perfume.
Ryan Bennett woke up at 7:15 AM with a thumping headache. The heavy blackout curtains kept the gray morning light at bay, but the faint hum of city traffic below reminded him that the world was moving. He rolled onto his side, his arm brushing against bare, silky skin.
Sydney Clarke was sleeping beside him, draped in an oversized silk robe, her golden-brown hair spilled across the white pillows.
Ryan sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. A wave of satisfaction washed through him. Last night had been intoxicating. Seeing Sydney after eight years—seeing the way she looked at him with regret, the way she touched his wrist and whispered that leaving him for that London investment banker had been the greatest mistake of her life—had fed an insatiable hunger inside his ego. For years, Claire had been his anchor, but anchors were heavy. Claire was practical, calm, endlessly forgiving, and thoroughly domestic. She had grown increasingly burdensome over the last few months, complaining about swollen ankles, false contractions, and demanding he stay home instead of networking.
Sydney was adrenaline. Sydney was the dream he had never fully conquered.
They hadn't crossed the physical line completely—Ryan had drawn a thin, cowardly line at kissing her on the balcony in the rain before passing out in the suite's secondary lounge—but the thrill of her presence was enough to make him feel untouchable.
He reached for his phone on the marble nightstand.
The screen was completely dark. The battery had died sometime around midnight after he silenced Claire’s frantic notifications.
"Damn it," he muttered, finding a charging cable in his briefcase and plugging the phone in. He leaned against the dresser, waiting for the Apple logo to illuminate.
"Ryan?" Sydney’s sleepy voice drifted from the king-sized bed. She pulled the covers to her collarbone, offering him a sultry, feline smile. "What time is it? Don't tell me you’re already leaving."
"I need to check in," Ryan said, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Claire was blowing up my phone last night. She was having some sort of anxiety attack about Braxton Hicks contractions. You know how first-time mothers get. They think every cramp is a national emergency."
Sydney giggled softly, sitting up against the headboard. "You’re too good to her, Ryan. Most men would have shut their phones off at dinner. She’s lucky you’re so patient. But really, does she have to be so needy? You’re running a multi-million-dollar firm. You can’t be expected to run home every time she has a mood swing."
"Yeah," Ryan smirked, feeling a burst of arrogant validation. "She just doesn't understand the pressure I’m under. But I’ll stop by the house, bring her some of those lavender pastries from the bakery she likes, and smooth it over. She can never stay mad at me for more than an hour."
The phone vibrated violently against the marble surface.
Ryan picked it up.
The screen lit up with a blinding cascade of red notifications that refused to stop.
*47 Missed Calls: Claire.*
*22 Missed Calls: Eleanor (Mother-in-law).*
*14 Missed Calls: Dr. Melissa Warren (Mass General Hospital).*
*8 Missed Calls: David Kessler (Partner).*
*3 Missed Calls: Marcus Vance (Legal).*
A tight knot formed in the pit of Ryan’s stomach, cold and heavy.
He tapped on his voicemail. There were eighteen messages. He clicked the first one from his mother-in-law, Eleanor. Her voice blasted through the speaker, hysterical and cracked with agony.
*"Ryan! Where the hell are you?! She’s bleeding! The paramedics are taking her to Mass General! Her abruption is severe—they can’t find the baby’s heartbeat! Pick up the damn phone, Ryan! PICK UP THE PHONE!"*
The blood drained from Ryan’s face instantly. The hangover vanished, replaced by an electric shock of sheer panic.
"What is it?" Sydney asked, sitting up straighter, the playful look vanishing from her face. "Ryan? What happened?"
He didn't answer. He tapped the latest message from David Kessler, left at 6:30 AM.
*"Ryan, pick up your phone right now. What the hell did you do? The bank just notified us that Bennett Capital’s secondary credit lines have been frozen by Claire’s family trust. Our corporate debit cards are declining. Marcus Vance served a cease-and-desist at the front desk twenty minutes ago. Ryan, where are you?!"*
"No, no, no," Ryan breathed, his fingers trembling as he tried to unlock the screen. He opened his messaging app.
The last text he had sent Claire flashed on the screen:
*Sydney’s back in town. This dinner matters. We’ll talk tomorrow.*
Directly beneath it was a single image sent from Claire’s phone at 3:15 AM.
It was a photograph of a clinical chart.
*Patient: Claire Bennett.*
*Procedure: Emergency Cesarean Section / Class 1 Abruption.*
*Infant: Male, 4 lbs 6 oz. Apgar: 3 / 7. Status: Critical / NICU Admission.*
*Next of Kin Consent: Sole Signature (Maternal).*
Beneath the photo was a text from Claire. Just four words:
*Do not come home.*
"Ryan?" Sydney stepped off the bed, wrapping the robe around herself, reaching for his arm. "Is everything okay? You're scaring me."
Ryan recoiled from her touch as if her skin were made of hot iron. He looked at Sydney—at the rumpled sheets, the empty champagne flutes, the decadent luxury of a night spent indulging his pathetic vanity—and for the first time in his life, a bottomless chasm of absolute terror opened beneath his feet.
"Get away from me," he choked out, grabbing his jacket off the floor.
"What? Ryan—"
"Shut up!" he screamed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched sob. "Just shut up!"
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He ran out of the suite without tying his shoes, sprinting down the carpeted hallway of the Four Seasons toward the elevators, praying against hope that the nightmare unspooling in his palms was just a terrible, irreversible mistake.
***
