Some Ruins Can Never Be Rebuilt

Chapter 3

"Alexander..." Vivian tugged at his sleeve. "Sylvie isn't going to leave us, is she?"

Coming back to himself, Alexander said, "She's just angry. After tomorrow's gala, I'll take her on vacation. She'll come around."

He believed that completely.

He believed that if he humbled himself and offered enough money and promises, Sylvie—the woman who had loved him for 10 whole years—would never escape his grasp.

He had no idea that tomorrow might be the last time he ever saw her.

The entire estate bustled with activity the next morning.

In the past, Sylvie would have started trying on gowns two weeks in advance.

Today, however, she didn't emerge until the styling director knocked on her bedroom door for the third time.

She wore a plain black dress without a single embellishment.

"Mrs. Preston, your husband personally chose a set of Harry Winston jewelry to go with your emerald gown today..."

"That won't be necessary. Style me in what I'm already wearing."

The stylist stood frozen, visibly troubled.

At the end of the hallway, Alexander approached while fastening his cuff links.

The moment he saw Sylvie's outfit, his expression darkened.

"Sylvie, today is the Preston family's centennial gala. Every leading figure in politics and business will be there." Alexander dismissed the styling team and shut the door behind them. "Whose funeral are you attending?"

Standing before her vanity, Sylvie calmly watched the man in the mirror.

"A funeral?" she echoed softly.

The demolished theater had been a monument to 200 years of the Schaefer family.

"I simply don't like bright colors." Sylvie turned around. "If you think I look inappropriate, I can stay home."

Alexander had no answer, and irritation surged through him again.

Yet as he took in her haggard face, his anger inexplicably gave way to helplessness.

He stepped forward, lowering himself in a way he never had before, and wrapped his arms gently around her.

"Sylvie, stop torturing me and stop torturing yourself. After today's gala, you can rebuild the theater however you want, all right? Next week, I'll send Vivian to Switzerland for treatment. She won't return to Boston for quite some time."

He was yielding.

This ruthless Wall Street titan, worth more than 1.5 billion dollars, had compromised for a woman for the first time in his life.

He expected Sylvie to do what she had done countless times before: turn around, lean into his embrace, and forgive him because her heart had softened.

But the woman in his arms didn't even change the rhythm of her breathing.

Sylvie let him hold her, her body as rigid as stone.

"Alexander."

"Yes?" he answered automatically, thinking she had finally relented.

"We're going to be late for the gala."

Alexander's arms stiffened, then slowly fell away.

"Fine." He stepped back and straightened his suit. "If you're determined to play the victim, have it your way. But Sylvie, my patience has limits."

He turned and left without another glance.

Sylvie took an envelope from her purse and placed it on the vanity.

A red California notary seal marked the front.

Inside were two fully executed legal documents:

Voluntary Waiver of Marital Property and Trust Interests.

Consent to Permanent Relinquishment of Custody and Termination of Parent-Child Relationship.

She returned everything that belonged to the Prestons, including the son she had carried for 9 months.