The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 495

Chapter 243-1

The next day

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The weak sunlight breaks over the city in a slow, suffocating drizzle. Water streaks down the massive glass panes of the penthouse, blurring the skyline into a wash of muted charcoal and

slate.

I sit on the edge of the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Locke’s heavy wool sweaters, my fingers

curled tightly around a lukewarm mug of herbal tea.

The silence in the apartment is heavy, almost physical.

Jade didn’t come back last night; she stayed at her place after the wake, desperately needing to be

near her husband after a day of death. Willow left before the sun even cleared the horizon, slipping

out to the sanctuary to lead an early morning yoga class for women seeking refuge from the city’s

harsh edges.

So it’s just me, the quiet hum of the refrigerator, and the soft, steady rhythm of my own breath.

Waiting for my father.

As if I manifested him with my thoughts, the sharp, metallic chime echoes through the open floor plan as the private elevator unlocks, followed by the soft whoosh of heavy doors sliding open directly into the foyer.

Dad steps out.

He looks exhausted. Deep, shadowed crescents bruise the skin beneath his dark eyes, and his jaw

is covered in a silver–flecked stubble that tells me he hasn’t slept well in days, maybe weeks.

In his right hand, he holds a cardboard Starbucks tray carrying two tall paper cups.

“Brought breakfast,” Dad says. “Well, the liquid part of it anyway.”

A small, breathless laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. “Pumpkin spice latté?”

“You think I’m going to buy my pregnant daughter a plain black drip?” He steps past the foyer, unzipping his heavy coat. “I know you get one caffeinated beverage a day, so we gotta make it count, huh?”

“It smells amazing.”

“They were out of the whipped cream that you like, so I had them use something low–fat. If it tastes like chemical sludge, tell me and I’ll go pull the barista through the drive–thru window.”

He sets the tray down on the kitchen island, peeling off his wet cut and draping it over the back of

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a barstool. The artificial warmth of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sweet espresso fills the sleek, cold

Dad pulls out the cup with ZARA hastily scrawled across the side in black marker, sliding it across

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