Chapter 8 - The Pregnancy He Found Out About Too Late

Vincent Moretti learned he was going to be a father from a threat made by his business partner.

Not from me.

That wasn't how I'd wanted it.

I'd once imagined telling him over dinner.

Maybe I'd place a tiny pair of shoes beside his plate.

Maybe he'd laugh.

Maybe he'd lift me into his arms.

Maybe we'd cry together.

Instead, I stood in Maya's kitchen holding my phone while my husband whispered the question I'd been avoiding.

"Claire, are you pregnant?"

I closed my eyes.

"Yes."

Silence.

Then Vincent made a sound I had never heard before.

A broken, breathless sob.

"Claire..."

I stared at the wall.

"Please don't."

"How far along?"

"Early."

"Is the baby okay?"

"The medical evaluations have been reassuring so far."

He began crying harder.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The question hurt.

I gripped the counter.

"Because I was going to tell you on Christmas Eve."

A long silence followed.

Then I continued.

"Before you left for New York."

Vincent said nothing.

"But I was afraid after what happened last year. I wanted the ultrasound first."

My voice broke.

"And then you came to the hospital with Vanessa."

He whispered, "God, Claire."

I wiped my eyes.

"I don't know what you expect me to say."

"I don't deserve to be part of this."

I swallowed.

"Our child deserves parents who put their needs first. Whatever happens between us, that's what matters."

Vincent took a shaky breath.

"Can I see the ultrasound?"

I hesitated.

"Not right now."

"Okay."

That surprised me.

He didn't argue.

Didn't demand.

Didn't remind me of his legal rights.

He simply accepted the answer.

Then he whispered, "I'm sorry."

I closed my eyes.

"I know."

But knowing he was sorry didn't mean I could forgive him.

That afternoon, Rebecca helped me discuss a parenting plan for after the baby was born.

We agreed the pregnancy should remain focused on medical care, stability, and reducing stress.

Vincent would receive appropriate updates through arrangements we could both respect.

But our marriage was still ending.

He seemed to understand.

At least for the moment.

Meanwhile, investigators were examining the unauthorized access to my medical information.

A private contractor had apparently obtained data through credentials belonging to a hospital administrative employee.

The contractor had received payments from a company associated with Adrian Bellini.

I felt sick.

Someone had used my private medical information as a weapon.

Detective Sarah Mitchell assured me the investigation was ongoing.

Then she asked an unexpected question.

"Dr. Moretti, did you ever receive medication or supplements from anyone associated with Adrian?"

I thought carefully.

Then remembered.

Vanessa.

Three weeks before my miscarriage, she'd sent a gift basket to the house.

She'd claimed it was a thank-you for Vincent's help with a charity event.

Inside were chocolates, herbal tea, and a bottle of prenatal supplements.

At the time, I'd assumed Vincent had told her about my pregnancy.

I stared at the detective.

"Yes."

Mitchell leaned forward.

"What was in the basket?"

I explained.

Her expression became serious.

"Do you still have any of the packaging?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know."

Then I remembered Sofia's study.

Rosa had mentioned an unopened bottle.

Maybe she'd kept it.

I immediately called her.

"Rosa, did Sofia leave anything from that gift basket?"

A long pause.

Then she whispered, "Yes."

My heart pounded.

"Where?"

"In the locked cabinet."

I felt dizzy.

"Is it still there?"

"Yes."

I closed my eyes.

The detective arranged for the item to be collected and examined by a qualified laboratory.

I spent the next two days trying not to imagine what the results might show.

Then Mitchell called.

Her voice sounded grim.

"Dr. Moretti, the preliminary laboratory findings are concerning."

I gripped my phone.

"What did they find?"

"An undeclared pharmaceutical substance in the supplement bottle."

My knees weakened.

"Could it have harmed my pregnancy?"

"We need specialists to assess the significance. The presence alone doesn't establish what caused your loss."

I nodded even though she couldn't see me.

I wanted truth.

Not assumptions.

Then Mitchell continued.

"There's something else."

"What?"

"Investigators found fingerprints on the inner packaging."

I stopped breathing.

She named the person.

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Vanessa Reed.

And suddenly, the woman whose pregnancy I'd helped save on Christmas Eve was connected to the gift basket that might have endangered mine.