Chapter 2: The Red Taillights
The cold November air struck Emma’s face like a splash of mountain water as she pushed through the brass revolving doors of the hotel onto St. James Avenue.
A light, silent snowfall had begun to dust the black asphalt of Boston.
Valet attendants scrambled forward, but Emma bypassed the chauffeured town car waiting at the curb. She walked past the line of luxury sedans to the private parking garage two blocks away, where her reliable, four-wheel-drive station wagon was parked.
She climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the steering wheel to accommodate her pregnant belly, and locked the doors.
Inside the quiet cabin, the only sound was her own slow, deep breathing.
She turned the key in the ignition, watching the dashboard glow amber. She pulled her smartphone from her satin evening clutch, placed it on the passenger seat, powered it off completely, and removed the SIM card, sliding it into the glove compartment.
She shifted into drive and steered the vehicle toward Interstate 95 North.
As the car crossed the Tobin Bridge, Emma looked in the rearview mirror at the glittering skyline of Boston.
In their fifteen-million-dollar penthouse on Beacon Hill, Julian’s life was an endless loop of press releases, private jets, and curated social dominance. For four years, Emma had minimized her own brilliance—her dual doctorate in pediatric neurology and clinical genetics—to play the smiling, supportive corporate wife. She had endured the whispered affairs, the canceled anniversaries, and the suffocating demand to preserve the Vance family reputation above all else.
*No more,* Emma thought, placing her hand over her abdomen. *My daughter will not draw her first breath inside a house built on lies.*
May you like
The red taillights of her car melted into the falling snow, heading north toward the dark, pine-covered coast of Maine.
---
