Chapter 4 - The Baby Vincent Couldn't Claim
Vincent Moretti had spent the entire evening calling Vanessa's pregnancy his miracle.
Now he wasn't certain the baby was biologically his.
I stared at him.
"That's something you need to discuss with Vanessa and her doctors."
He looked devastated.
"Claire, she told me—"
"I know what she told you."
My voice was quieter than I expected.
"And I know what you did."
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, the man who controlled a billion-dollar investment firm looked completely lost.
But I couldn't comfort him.
Not anymore.
I had spent five years doing that.
Comforting him when business went badly.
Excusing his absences.
Believing every explanation.
Meanwhile, I'd been grieving our lost baby alone.
Rebecca touched my arm.
"Claire, you should go home somewhere safe."
I nodded.
But home no longer felt safe.
Adrian Bellini had apparently entered Sofia's study.
Someone had removed a file.
And Vanessa was connected to more secrets than I could count.
"I'm not going to the house," I said.
Rebecca nodded.
"I can arrange a hotel."
"No. I'll stay with Maya."
My colleague stepped closer.
"Absolutely."
Vincent looked toward me.
"Claire, let me arrange protection."
I shook my head.
"No."
"Adrian may be dangerous."
"Then tell the police what you know."
He hesitated.
That hesitation hurt.
Even now, with everything collapsing around him, his first instinct was to protect his business.
I looked at him.
"Vincent, if you know something that could put people in danger, you need to report it."
He swallowed.
Then nodded.
"You're right."
For the first time in months, he sounded like the man I'd married.
But one good decision couldn't erase years of lies.
The next morning, I sat in Maya's kitchen drinking ginger tea.
Her apartment smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread.
A small Christmas tree stood beside the window.
Underneath were gifts wrapped in red paper.
Maya placed a plate of toast in front of me.
"Eat."
I smiled weakly.
"You're bossy."
"Only with people who haven't eaten since yesterday."
I took a bite.
Then another.
My stomach had been unsettled for days.
Pregnancy.
Stress.
Exhaustion.
All of it tangled together.
Maya sat across from me.
"Claire, have you scheduled your ultrasound?"
I froze.
She looked at me.
"You think I didn't notice?"
Tears filled my eyes.
"I haven't told anyone."
Maya reached for my hand.
"Then you don't have to tell anyone until you're ready."
I began crying.
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if something happens again?"
She squeezed my fingers.
"We'll make sure you get proper prenatal care and support. One pregnancy doesn't determine the outcome of another."
I nodded.
I knew that medically.
But knowing something as a doctor didn't always make believing it easier as a frightened mother.
Later that morning, I attended a confidential prenatal appointment with a colleague outside my own hospital.
The ultrasound room was dim.
I lay on the examination table, staring at the ceiling.
Then the technician pointed toward the screen.
"There."
A tiny shape appeared.
My breath caught.
My baby.
Alive.
The clinician explained that the pregnancy appeared consistent with the early dates and arranged routine follow-up care.
I began crying.
For the first time since Christmas Eve, the tears weren't only from heartbreak.
They were from hope.
I placed a hand over my stomach.
"Hello, sweetheart," I whispered.
Maya hugged me afterward.
We were leaving the clinic when my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Vincent.
Standing beside Adrian Bellini outside a private office building.
The photograph was dated the night of my miscarriage.
My stomach tightened.
Another message followed.
Your husband wasn't on a business emergency that night.
I stared.
May you like
Then came the final sentence.
He was helping Adrian cover up a crime.
Related Stories
