Chapter 3 - Awakening in the PenthouseWhen I opened my eyes again, the harsh, fluorescent lights of a hospital ward were gone.
Instead, I was lying in a massive, silk-draped bed inside my father’s private penthouse recovery suite overlooking the glittering Chicago skyline. The room smelled faintly of white lilies and cedarwood. An IV bag hung quietly beside the bed, pumping warm saline and vitamins into my veins.
The digital bedside clock glowed softly: 3:42 AM.
The door clicked open, and my father walked in, carrying a porcelain mug of steaming chamomile tea. He looked tired, the stress of the past twenty-four hours etching deeper lines around his eyes, but the moment he saw my eyes open, a wave of profound relief washed over his face.
"You're awake," he breathed softly, walking over to sit on the edge of the mattress. He set the mug down and gently stroked my hair. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
"Warm," I murmured, my voice still slightly raspy. "Where... where is Daniel?"
My father's jaw tightened instantly, a flash of cold steel returning to his eyes.
"Daniel is currently trying to figure out how his family's real estate firm is going to survive the next forty-eight hours," my father replied smoothly, pouring some water into a glass for me. "The moment we left the lake house, I revoked every line of credit Morrison Industries extended to Whitmore Holdings. Our legal team has audited their accounts, and frankly, they're on the verge of bankruptcy."
I took a slow sip of the cool water, feeling the strength gradually return to my limbs.
"Did they say anything?" I asked quietly. "Did Daniel try to call?"
"His phone has been ringing my office every three minutes since midnight," my father said with a cold, humorless smile. "He claims it was all a mistake, that he loves you, that he wants to talk things through like 'family.' I had our security detail block his number across all corporate and personal lines."
I stared down at the white silk duvet, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of my hands. For seven years, I had believed that my worth was tied to how much abuse I could endure, how much silence I could keep to make things easy for everyone else.
Lying here in my father's penthouse, surrounded by unconditional protection, that illusion shattered into a million pieces.
"I want a divorce," I said clearly, looking straight into my father's eyes.
Thomas Morrison didn't look surprised. In fact, a proud, approving smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"I already had our top family law attorney draft the papers," my father said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a thick manila folder. "Grounds: physical abuse, mental cruelty, and hostile endangerment. We're asking for full dissolution, immediate asset freezing, and a restraining order against both Daniel and Evelyn Whitmore."
I opened the folder, running my fingers over the crisp legal text. My maiden name—Chloe Morrison—was printed boldly at the top of every page.
May you like
I hadn't realized how much I missed hearing it.
"Let's sign it," I said softly, picking up the heavy fountain pen my father offered me.
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