She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 2

(Natasha)

The temperature always seems to drop when I cross the threshold of the Warren Estate.

Cold enough to pass for a museum.

Or a prison.

A brilliantly designed one.

People say grief is loud. That it makes you scream, cry, break things.

Maybe that’s true for some people.

I didn’t cry. Because screaming requires oxygen, and right then, breathing was already taking more effort than I could spare.

I pull my phone out of my purse and dial a number I haven’t touched in over a year.

The line rings twice before my property manager answers.

The surprise in his voice is obvious. “Ms. Kelly?”

“Get my townhouse ready,” I tell him.

My voice sounds smooth enough, even though my hands are trembling slightly. “Hire a premium crew. Scrub it from top to bottom. Open every window and air the place out.”

A pause.

“I’m moving back in by the end of the week.”

Until then, I’ll stay in a hotel.

One thing is certain—I am not spending another night under Chase Warren’s roof.

I head up the grand staircase and start packing, methodically.

Only the armor from my previous life makes the cut.

Expensive designer fabrics the CFO Natasha wore get tossed into my old Louis Vuitton travel set.

The pastel maternity dresses, purchased to play the role of Chase’s soft, compliant wife, remain untouched.

They no longer belong to me. The woman who wore those soft clothes died in a sterile clinic hallway an hour ago.

On my way to the laundry room to salvage a favorite blouse, my foot hits something slick.

The soap is spread right across the threshold.

Deliberately.

My leather sole loses traction, and suddenly gravity yanks me down before my brain can even process what’s happening.

The floor rushes up. The impact is brutal.

Bone collides with hardwood with a sickening crack that sends a jagged bolt of white-hot pain shooting straight up my leg. The air is punched violently out of my lungs.

For a moment, I see stars.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough, the metallic taste floods my mouth.

Whimpering isn’t an option. I will never again show weakness in this house.

My knee is already swelling beneath my trousers, throbbing with a vicious heat.

I drag my pregnant body upright using the edge of the washing machine.

No one comes running.

No gasps of concern echo down the hallway.

That isn’t surprising.

The housekeeper takes her cues straight from the top, my mother-in-law, Eleanor Warren.

Whenever Chase isn’t around, her small, petty hostilities surface like clockwork.

Cold coffee.

Ignored requests.

Little booby traps like the one I just fell into.

They’re her way of reminding me exactly where I stand in the household hierarchy.

I hobble toward the kitchen and pull an ice pack from the freezer.

Sitting down on a folding stool, I press the cold plastic against my knee.

The quiet stretches out around me and an old wound cracks open.

Abandonment has always been the only inheritance my bloodline ever offered me.

My mother left when I was only a little girl.

She took my older brother with her. But not me.

She just packed her bags and slipped out the back door without a single glance back.

My father didn’t survive the betrayal much better than I did.

He methodically destroyed every photograph, every object that carried their memory.

By the time I was old enough to ask questions, their faces were already gone.

Eventually, he disappeared too.

Not by choice. But death has a way of finalizing abandonment.

The day the earth swallowed his casket, I learned a lesson the universe clearly wanted to make permanent.

I am the only person I can rely on.

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