Don’t Beg For My Return

CHPT 2

The black sedan pulled into the quiet driveway of the villa just past two in the morning.

Clara stepped out of the passenger side, clutching a velvet designer watch box against her purse. The signature celebration at the Grand Hyatt had lasted for hours, and the golden contract was finally secured in her briefcase.

Julian stepped out after her, holding a light woolen scarf around his neck as he walked her toward the entrance.

"You should get some sleep, Clara," Julian said softly, his voice trembling with mild exhaustion. "You pushed through forty rounds of negotiations tonight. Even with my weak chest, I could barely keep up with your pace."

"It was worth every second," Clara replied, a proud, satisfied smile touching her lips. "This fifty-million-dollar deal will secure our company's position for the next ten years. Marcus was angry on the phone earlier, but once he sees this watch and understands what I accomplished tonight, he will see why I couldn't walk away."

She reached the front porch, but her steps suddenly slowed.

The front porch lamp was pitch-black.

For five years, no matter what time she returned from a business banquet, that golden light was always left burning to guide her path up the stone steps.

Clara frowned slightly, pulling her house key from her purse and pushing the front door open.

Inside, the foyer was completely dark and freezing cold.

The small electric heater that Marcus always turned on twenty minutes before she arrived home was dead silent. The bitter autumn chill seeped straight through her silk blouse, making her shiver violently.

"Why is it so freezing in here?" Clara muttered, flicking on the hallway chandelier.

Julian stepped inside behind her, glancing around with a cautious look. "Did Marcus forget to turn on the heat before going to bed?"

Clara walked straight toward the kitchen counter, her throat dry and burning from the dry wine she had drunk at the banquet.

For five years, a thermos of warm lotus seed tea always sat in the exact center of the marble island, brewed fresh to soothe her chronic stomach ulcers after late dinners.

Tonight, the marble counter was completely bare.

Clara reached out and turned the kitchen tap, but only a dry hiss came from the copper pipes.

A sharp spike of irritation flared in Clara’s chest as she tossed her car keys onto the island. "He is actually giving me the silent treatment over a missed phone call. He knows my stomach burns if I don't drink my tea after a banquet."

"Don't be too hard on him, Clara," Julian said gently, stepping up to her side with a small, understanding smile. "Marcus stays at home all day, so he doesn't understand how exhausting corporate dinners are. He probably just fell asleep early."

"He had no right to turn off the heat," Clara snapped, her executive pride rising. "I am going upstairs to check on Mia."

She marched up the carpeted staircase, the heels of her designer shoes clicking against the wood. Julian followed quietly behind her, keeping a respectful three paces back.

Clara pushed open the door to the master bedroom and flipped on the lights.

The large bed was perfectly made, the pillows fluffed and cold to the touch.

"Marcus?" Clara called out, her voice echoing in the empty room.

No one answered.

She walked over to the walk-in closet and pulled back the sliding door.

Clara froze on the spot.

The left side of the closet—where Marcus’s three plain cotton shirts, his dark trousers, and his two winter jackets had hung for five years—was stripped completely bare.

There were no piles of clothes tossed onto the floor in anger, and no signs of a struggle. There were only clean, empty wooden hangers swaying slightly in the draft.

"What is this?" Clara whispered, her heart giving an uncomfortable, sudden thud.

She spun around, rushed out of the bedroom, and threw open the door to the nursery across the hall.

The small nightlight shaped like a yellow star was unplugged on the floor.

Mia’s tiny bed was stripped down to the mattress. The plush brown bear that Mia could never sleep without was gone from the corner, and the white shelf that held the child's medical binders and daily vitamins was completely empty.

A cold wave of shock rushed down Clara’s spine, making her hands turn numb.

"Julian!" Clara called out, her voice rising into a sharp, panicked cry. "Marcus took Mia!"

Julian hurried down the hall, his eyes widening as he looked into the empty children's room. "What do you mean he took her? Did he really pack her things?"

"Everything is gone!" Clara said, her chest heaving as she ran back toward the stairs. "Her coats, her toys, her medicine... everything!"

She sprinted down to the ground floor, her mind spinning with a mixture of disbelief and growing fury.

As she rushed into the kitchen to grab her phone, her eyes caught something resting right in the middle of the kitchen island.

It was a thick, clean white manila folder.

Clara stepped forward, her fingers trembling as she pulled the papers from the sleeve.

Right on top was a formal petition for a unilateral divorce, executed and signed by Marcus Vance in crisp, unyielding black ink.

Beneath the petition lay an unconditional property quitclaim.

Marcus had surrendered every single asset without asking for a dime. The luxury suburban villa, the joint investment portfolios, the vehicles, and all claims to Bennett Tech’s equity were transferred entirely to Clara’s name.

He claimed and demanded nothing!

The only clause he had underlined in dark ink was the sole legal and physical custody of four-year-old Mia Vance.

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes moved to the final page clipped to the back of the legal file.

It was an official emergency intake record from St. Jude Children’s Hospital, bearing a timestamp of 10:14 PM.

Across the center of the clinical diagnostic sheet was a bold, raised red seal:

CRITICAL HEMOLYTIC CRISIS - MATERNAL DONOR CONTACT FAILED.

The room seemed to tilt violently beneath Clara’s feet.

The blood drained from her face, leaving her so cold she felt as though ice water had been poured into her veins.

The memory of the phone call from three hours ago rushed through her mind like a roaring freight train.

Marcus’s voice, raw, ragged, and weeping into the receiver: Mia had a severe relapse. Her blood is failing... The doctor said only you can give her the direct transfusion... If you don't come right now, you will never see your child alive again!

And she had shouted at him. She had told him he was playing sick games out of petty jealousy. She had called his plea a dramatic threat and told the doctors to use synthetic medicine while she sat with a glass of champagne.

"No..." Clara breathed, her fingers shaking so violently that the papers fluttered against the counter. "No, this is impossible... Mia was fine this morning..."

Julian stepped closer, peering over her shoulder at the red hospital stamp. His eyes flickered with a brief, nervous twitch before his face quickly melted into a look of tender concern.

"Clara, look at me," Julian said softly, reaching out to gently touch her trembling arm. "Take a deep breath."

"Julian, look at this stamp!" Clara cried, tears of pure terror suddenly blurring her vision as she clutched the paper. "It says maternal donor failed! Her blood was failing! What if she really crashed? What if Marcus was telling the truth?!"

Clara scrambled for her purse, her fingers digging frantically for her phone. "I have to call him. I have to find out what hospital they are at right now!"

Before she could dial, Julian gently placed his warm hand over the screen of her phone, stopping her thumb.

"Clara, wait," Julian said in a gentle, soothing tone. "Think about this clearly for a moment."

Clara looked up at him, her chest heaving. "What is there to think about?! My daughter was in the ICU!"

"If Mia was truly in fatal danger, would Marcus have had the time to go to a law firm, print formal divorce papers, and drive all the way back here to leave them on the counter?" Julian asked reasonably, his voice dropping into a soft, calming whisper.

Clara froze, her mind caught off guard by the question.

"Look at the paperwork, Clara," Julian continued, gesturing delicately toward the folder. "The petition is completely typed and stamped by a legal notary. That takes hours to arrange. If Mia was truly on the brink of death, a father would be holding her hand in the emergency room, not drafting property agreements."

Julian let out a quiet, sorrowful sigh, looking down with a trace of self-blame. "It’s my fault. Marcus saw that you were with me tonight, and his pride couldn't take it. He used the hospital’s name to stage this entire scene because he wanted to punish you for putting Bennett Tech first."

Clara stared at the neat, unwrinkled pages of the divorce decree.

"You really think he planned this?" Clara asked, her voice wavering between dread and the desperate desire to believe Julian was right.

"Marcus has always been insecure about your success, Clara," Julian said gently, tilting his head with practiced sincerity. "He stays at home while you run a massive company. Tonight, you closed a historic deal, and he felt completely useless. Calling him right now will only feed his anger."

Julian stepped closer, his voice carrying the warmth of an old friend who only had her best interests at heart. "If you chase after him in the middle of the night, you are telling him that he can control you with dramatic threats anytime he feels ignored. Do you remember last winter when he got upset and stayed at that cheap motel for a night?"

Clara remembered. Last winter, after a bitter argument over Julian’s company bonus, Marcus had walked out in the snow.

"He came back before sunrise," Clara murmured softly.

"Exactly," Julian smiled warmly, patting her hand. "He came back with hot breakfast, cleaned the living room, and apologized for losing his temper. Marcus has no independent income, Clara. He gave up his career five years ago to manage this house. Where could he possibly go with a four-year-old child?"

Julian's smooth words slowly wrapped around Clara's panic, soothing the raw wound in her conscience.

Yes, she thought. Marcus was an ordinary man who relied on her company credit card for every single grocery run. He had no powerful friends in the city, no family left in Oakville, and nowhere to run.

He was just throwing a massive, calculated tantrum because she had spent the evening securing their future instead of sitting at his dinner table.

Clara slowly lowered her phone, the tightness in her chest hardening back into cold, defensive anger.

She looked down at the red hospital stamp on the intake sheet.

Even if Mia had suffered a mild fever, Marcus had deliberately exaggerated it into a life-or-death crisis just to drag her away from her investors. He had used their own daughter as a pawn to test her loyalty.

Clara tossed the manila folder back onto the marble counter, letting out a sharp, incredulous scoff that echoed through the dark kitchen.

"Running away with the child to scare me?" Clara said aloud to the empty room, her eyes narrowing with icy certainty as she smoothed her dress. "Marcus Vance, let's see how many days you survive out there without my money."

Julian pulled his woolen scarf tighter around his neck, coughing weakly into his hand with a pained frown.

"Clara... it’s already half past two," Julian murmured, looking toward the dark foyer with an apologetic expression. "I should probably start heading out to find a hotel. My chest feels tight and my whole body is sore from running around with investors, but I don't want to cause any trouble."

He let out a tired, delicate sigh, clutching his jacket as if barely holding himself upright.

"Even if I have to trek through the cold to find a cab at this hour, it's fine," Julian added softly. "I really don't want Marcus using my presence as an excuse to blame you even more."

Clara looked at his pale face, a surge of irritation toward Marcus sweeping through her mind.

"Trek in the freezing cold? Don't be ridiculous, Julian," Clara said firmly, reaching out to stop him. "Look at this house. Marcus walked out, took Mia, and threw divorce papers in my face."

She looked around the massive, quiet living room, feeling the bitter chill hanging in the air.

"Marcus isn't here to complain or throw childish fits anyway," Clara continued in an unyielding tone. "This house is far too big and cold for me to stay here alone tonight. Go take your medicine and sleep in the guest room."

Julian lowered his head, a faint, hidden gleam of triumph flashing in his eyes before he gave a meek nod. "If you really need me here, Clara... I'll stay so you aren't alone."

Clara watched him head down the hallway, convinced she was simply being a generous and practical friend.

She genuinely believed Marcus was nothing more than a penniless househusband who needed her credit card to buy a loaf of bread.

She had no idea that the quiet man who had washed her dishes and folded her clothes for five years was an existence far beyond her reach.