Chapter 94

Sean POV

I stood in the private elevator for what felt like hours, my finger hovering over the penthouse button.

The thought of stepping into that empty space-knowing Angela wouldn't be there-made my chest tighten painfully.

No more gentle scent of her jasmine tea wafting through the halls, no soft click of her heels against the marble floors, no warm smile welcoming me home.

When I finally forced myself to press the button, each floor the elevator passed felt like another weight added to my shoulders.

The doors opened to reveal our-no, my penthouse now. Even the air felt different, heavier somehow, as if the very space knew its heart had been torn out.

Sarah emerged from the kitchen, her usual warm smile replaced by careful neutrality. "Welcome home, Mr. Shaw. Would you like dinner?"

"Did she... did she come back today?" I tried to keep my voice steady, though the words felt thick in my throat.

"Yes, Mr. Shaw," Sarah's voice was gentle, almost pitying. "Mrs. Shaw came by this afternoon to collect some of her belongings." She hesitated, then added softly, "She didn't stay long."

I nodded curtly, loosening my tie as I strode toward our master suite. The bedroom door swung open silently, revealing a space that looked almost unchanged at first glance.

But the small absences began to register: her tablet missing from the bedside table, the vanity cleared of her elegant perfume bottles, the chair where she often sat to read now bare of her cashmere throw.

My eyes caught on something glinting on the dresser.

The check I'd written her lay untouched, alongside the platinum credit card Mother had insisted she keep "for emergencies." Beside them, catching the last rays of sunset through our floor-to-ceiling windows, lay her wedding ring.

I picked up the ring with trembling fingers. Michael had helped me choose it-a custom Cartier design with a cushion-cut diamond that had reminded me of starlight caught in crystal.

I'd never told Angela that I'd spent weeks selecting it, even though our marriage was supposed to be just a business arrangement.

The walk-in closet still held her evening gowns-dozens of them, each carefully chosen for various corporate events and charity galas.

My fingers brushed against a midnight blue Valentino she'd worn to last year's Metropolitan Opera gala. She'd been radiant that night, drawing admiring glances from New York's elite while maintaining that quiet dignity that set her apart from the usual social climbers.

In the back of a drawer, I found our wedding photo, carefully preserved.

Angela's face glowed with a mix of nervousness and something else-something I'd been too blind to recognize at the time.

I remembered how her hands had trembled slightly as we'd exchanged rings, how she'd smiled up at me with such trust in her eyes.

I collapsed onto our bed, overwhelmed by the lingering traces of her presence-the subtle scent of her lavender body wash still clinging to the pillows, the dog-eared novel on her nightstand marking the page she'd never finish.

Each detail felt like a precise cut, small but devastating in its finality.

Anger, grief, and regret warred in my chest as I stared at the ceiling. The weight of my choices-every moment I'd chosen Christina over Angela, every time I'd dismissed her feelings or taken her loyalty for granted-pressed down on me like a physical force.

My phone felt heavy in my hand as I pulled up Angela's number. I'd rehearsed the words carefully: "You left some things here. They're taking up space. If you don't come get them, I'll have them thrown out."

A petty threat, but one that might at least get her to respond.

The call went straight to voicemail. So did the second. And the third.

Frustration mounted as I switched to Christopher's number, only to receive the same response. The image of them together somewhere, deliberately ignoring my calls, made my blood boil.

I hurled my phone across the room, taking grim satisfaction in the crack of its impact against the wall.

Morning brought no relief.

The Shaw Tower offices seemed off-kilter, Angela's absence creating a void that even the usual bustle of corporate life couldn't fill.

I found myself staring at her empty desk through my office window, remembering how she'd organize my schedule with quiet efficiency, anticipating my needs before I could voice them.

"Michael," I called out, my voice sharper than intended. "I need you to locate Angela's current whereabouts."

His response was unexpectedly cold. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Shaw." He placed two folders on my desk with precise movements.

"I'm here to submit my resignation, effective immediately."

"Resignation?" My mind struggled to process this latest betrayal. "Why?"

"Personal reasons." His tone remained professionally distant as he gestured to the second folder. "Mrs. Wilson prepared this transition guide before her departure. She's outlined all ongoing projects and included detailed handover notes."

My jaw clenched at the mention of her maiden name. "She promised to stay on at the company, even after-"

"If I may speak freely, sir," Michael interrupted, his usual deference giving way to barely contained disapproval,

"you've lost not only an exceptional wife but an invaluable executive assistant."

He paused at the door, adding quietly, "Though I suspect you'll only realize the true extent of that loss once it's too late."

The address Peter provided led to a brownstone in the West Village, its windows glowing warmly against the gathering darkness.

Sophie answered my knock with visible hostility, her usual fashionable poise replaced by defensive anger.

"What do you want?" she demanded, blocking the doorway with her slight frame.

"Is she here?" I fought to keep my voice steady. "She left things at the penthouse. If she doesn't collect them-"

"Throw them out." Her laugh held no humor. "She won't be needing them where she's gone."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"She's left the country, Sean." Sophie's eyes glittered with a mix of satisfaction and protective fury. "And before you ask, no, I won't tell you where. The best thing you can do for her now is leave her alone. You've caused her enough pain."

My legs gave way, and I found myself sinking to my knees on Sophie's doorstep.

The finality of it-Angela not just gone from our home or our marriage, but from the country entirely-made it hard to breathe.

The sound of Sophie's door closing echoed with devastating finality, leaving me alone with the realization that this time, Angela was truly beyond my reach.

The girl who had been in my life since childhood, who would argue with me over everything from stock picks to coffee brands, who somehow always knew exactly what I needed before I did-was actually gone.

"Angela..." I whispered into the empty night, "why did you have to be so cruel?"