Landon,

You are free. You have your son now and are officially free of me. Free of your contract with my father. Free to find a wife that you choose. I only ask that whoever you choose loves our son as much as I love our son. That you will raise him to be kind and respectful, strong, compassionate, and all the other things that I love most about you. Thank you for giving me the best two years of my life. I will cherish them for the rest of my days. You showed me that the world can be kind, and I wish you every happiness. Please do not look for me, just know that I am safe and at peace with my life. And please know that my heart does, and forever will, belong to you.

—Brooke

I drop down to the bed in confusion. Gone? Do not look for her? A wife of my choosing? Something fills my chest taking away all room for oxygen. I struggle to breath. This does not make any sense. We have not even talked about that damn contract in months. I glance at the clock; it’s four a.m. She cannot have left too long ago because Cahal eats roughly every two hours. I never heard him until about an hour ago, so she must have been tending to him. I try to think where she would go, but I realize I have no idea.

Grabbing the baby monitor, I go down to her art room. I spend the rest of the night tearing it apart, looking for clues as to where she would go. But all I find is her art—drawings of flowers and fruits and toys, pictures and wood carvings, a picture of Sonia and Brooke having tea coffee at their favorite café in town.

Sonia. Sonia came over yesterday, and I have a feeling in my gut that she knows where Brooke went.

I head upstairs to prepare Cahal bottle. It is almost six a.m., his usual wake time. Mrs. Fanny should be in for work soon and can babysit while I have a little chat with Sonia.

Two hours later, I find myself pounding on Sonia’s apartment door. Sonia answers the door almost immediately. She is dressed and appears to have been up for a couple hours.

“Good morning. Mind if I come in?” I snark before pushing past her, not waiting for a response.

Sonia’s apartment is nice, decorated in cool tones with a modern chic look. I sit on her baby blue couch and stare at the coffee and tea tray on the coffee table—set for two.

“You knew I was going to come over,” I accuse her. She shrugs.

“Where is she, Sonia? I know you know,” I demand.

“I don’t know,” she says calmly, keeping her voice low.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t know where she is,” she says again.

I study her, her eyes bruised from lack of sleep, guilt pouring out of her. “You knew she was going to leave.”