Too Late To Beg: The Unwanted Wife Is An Heiress

Kaleb POV

The engagement party was a suffocating parade of sycophants, a glitzy vacuum where oxygen was scarce and sincerity non-existent. I hated it. I hated how Ignatz preened like a prize peacock. I hated how Meredith looked at everyone like they were dirt on her shoe.

But mostly, I hated that Genevieve wasn't here.

I found Meredith near the chocolate fountain.

"Where is she?" I asked, dispensing with pleasantries.

Meredith sipped her champagne, her eyes glittering with malice. "Who? Oh, Genevieve? She went back to her old apartment. Or maybe she ran off to the countryside. Who knows with her? She's unstable."

"Unstable?" I narrowed my eyes. "She's the most grounded person I know."

"She's a liability," Meredith snapped. "Ignatz is better off without her dragging him down."

Ignatz walked by, laughing with a group of investors.

"Ignatz," I called out, stepping into his path. "Where is Gen?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "She went home, Kaleb. She's fine. She's just... taking some time."

Taking some time. The phrase rang false. It was a corporate euphemism, not something Genevieve would do. I had a bad feeling in my gut, a cold knot that tightened with every second.

"I'm going to check on her," I said.

"Don't bother," Ignatz said, turning back to his admirers. "She wants to be alone."

I ignored him. I grabbed my coat and strode out into the night.

I drove to the address I had on file-a rundown building in a part of the city Genevieve Foley should never have set foot in.

The front door of the apartment building was broken, hanging off one hinge. The hallway smelled of mildew and neglect. I reached her door. It was unlocked.

"Gen?" I pushed the door open.

The smell of smoke hit me first-acrid and sharp.

I flipped the light switch. The bulb flickered and buzzed like a dying insect.

The apartment was a wreck. It resembled a prison cell more than a home. There was a metal trash can in the middle of the kitchen with fresh ashes in it.

"Genevieve!" I shouted, checking the tiny bathroom, the closet.

Empty.

I walked to the bedroom. A bare mattress lay on the floor. No sheets. No warmth.

On the pillow, something white caught my eye.

I walked over and picked it up. It was a glossy photo. An ultrasound.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. I picked up the paper underneath it. A hospital discharge form. Dated two days ago.

Patient: Genevieve Ball.

Diagnosis: Miscarriage.

Notes: Signs of severe malnutrition and blunt force trauma.

I felt the bile rise in my throat.

Ignatz didn't know. He was drinking champagne while she was losing his child.

I took out my phone and snapped photos of everything. The peeling paint. The mattress. The ashes. The damning medical papers.

I walked back to the living room table. A leather diary sat there, solitary and accusing.

I picked it up. I shouldn't read it. It was private. But she was gone, and I needed to find her.

I opened it to the last page.

Mommy is sorry. Mommy loved the wrong person.

My hands shook.

I ran out of the apartment, the diary clutched to my chest like a lifeline. I drove back to the venue like a madman, breaking every speed limit, fueled by a cold, white-hot rage.

I burst into the ballroom. Ignatz was cutting the cake with Everleigh.

I marched up to them.

"Kaleb?" Meredith stepped in my path, her smile faltering. "What are you doing? You look disheveled."

"She's gone," I said, my voice loud enough to slice through the music.

Ignatz looked up, the knife frozen in his hand. "Who?"

"Genevieve," I said. "And you have no idea what you've done."

I flicked the ultrasound photo onto the pristine white frosting of the multi-tiered cake.

"Congratulations, Ignatz," I said, my voice shaking. "You're celebrating while she was mourning your dead child."