The Price Of His Mistake Chapter 12
Andrew stood there. Frozen.
He watched his Chesterfield sofa, the one he’d napped on through countless weekends, get hauled out like junk. He watched the Tiffany lamp they’d found together at a Paris flea market get tossed into a cardboard box.
After he was escorted off the property, Andrew stood on the sidewalk of Park Avenue. Deep autumn. The wind cut.
He pulled out his phone. He dialed my number. Again. And again.
*Sorry, the number you have dialed is switched off…*
Andrew gripped the phone. He stood under the streetlight. Tears streamed down his face.
He walked. Like a ghost. No direction.
When he couldn’t walk anymore, he sat down on a bench near Central Park.
Images played through his mind like a film reel. The wedding day.
Andrew in his tuxedo, standing in front of the mirror. Catherine walking in. Standing behind him. Watching him for a long moment.
He’d said, “You done staring?”
She’d said, “Not enough. Not in a lifetime.”
A lifetime. What a joke. The lifetime wasn’t even over, and he’d already used up all its grace.
The regret hit him like a tide. Suffocating.
He covered his face. He broke down on that bench. Ugly, heaving sobs. He cried until he was empty. Then he curled up and passed out.
Early the next morning, a park patrol officer’s flashlight woke him.
“Sir. Sir, wake up. You can’t sleep here.”
Andrew jolted awake. His body ached. He looked down at his rumpled suit. His wrecked hair.
Then he remembered. Yesterday. Edward. “The Blackwood family.”
It hit him like a lifeline. A last thread. He searched frantically, asked around, and finally found an address.
The Blackwood family estate. A private coastal property in the Hamptons.