Chapter 10 - THE DAY ADRIAN STOPPED FIGHTING FOR THE WRONG THING
The divorce could have become final in thirty-one days.
Adrian did nothing to stop it.
That hurt more than I expected.
Ridiculous, considering I had asked for it.
But emotional freedom apparently came with terrible timing.
He moved out of the penthouse.
Transferred my personal property to storage under my control.
Closed joint accounts.
Separated legitimate assets cleanly.
No games.
No hidden conditions.
He even signed a temporary parenting agreement for the baby before birth.
Every clause said the same thing in different legal language.
Claire chooses where she lives.
Claire controls medical decisions during pregnancy.
Adrian receives information only with Claire’s consent.
After birth, parenting schedules are determined around the child’s needs.
No Moretti security around the child unless both parents agree.
I read it twice.
Then cried.
Not because I wanted the old Adrian back.
Because this version had arrived after we broke.
Vanessa came over that evening carrying takeout.
“Pregnancy requires carbohydrates.”
“Medical degree?”
“Instagram.”
We ate pasta on my couch.
She had become an unlikely friend.
Maybe surviving the same powerful men created shortcuts.
“Do you still love him?” she asked.
I glared.
“That is invasive.”
“Yes.”
I sighed.
“Yes.”
“Annoying.”
“Extremely.”
“Do you want the divorce?”
“I wanted the marriage I thought we had.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I hated that everyone around me had become emotionally competent.
“I don’t know.”
That was honest.
Adrian had spent three years asking me to wait.
I refused to spend the next chapter asking myself to hurry.
Pregnancy gave me other priorities.
At sixteen weeks, the baby had strong measurements.
At twenty weeks, I learned we were having a girl.
I cried inside the ultrasound room.
Then stared at the phone.
I could tell Adrian immediately.
Or wait.
For once, nobody decided for me.
I sent him the image.
Girl.
His reply came two minutes later.
Thank you.
Nothing else.
Then:
May I call?
I said yes.
His voice broke after hello.
“A daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s perfect.”
He was silent for several seconds.
Then:
“Are you okay?”
That question mattered more.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
No claims.
No plans.
No Moretti heir.
Just a father.
After the call, I sat inside my car and cried again.
A month later, Adrian sold his Manhattan penthouse.
He moved into a townhouse in Brooklyn.
Not far from my apartment.
I accused him of strategic proximity.
He said:
“Yes.”
At least he remained himself.
He also started a legitimate investment firm using only assets cleared through federal review.
Small.
By Adrian standards.
He employed forty people instead of four hundred.
No hidden operations.
No armed men in hallways.
Luca stayed on as security director.
Vanessa called it “Mafia rehabilitation by spreadsheet.”
Adrian did not find that funny.
I did.
Then something happened I had not expected.
The Moretti Foundation board asked me to testify about fraudulent financial structures Salvatore had built using my models.
I agreed.
During the hearing, one older board member asked:
“Mrs. Moretti, why didn’t you recognize the misuse earlier?”
I looked at him.
“Because nobody told me I was Mrs. Moretti.”
The room went completely silent.
That sentence appeared in newspapers the next morning.
So did something else.
A photograph of Adrian standing outside the hearing.
Reporters shouted:
“Mr. Moretti, is Claire still your wife?”
For three years, that question had terrified him.
This time, Adrian answered immediately.
“Legally, yes.”
Then he looked directly at the cameras.
“And whether she remains my wife is entirely her choice.”
No denial.
No hiding.
No possession.
I watched the clip twelve times.
Then Rebecca called.
“The deadline is tomorrow.”
“What deadline?”
“To stop the divorce before the final decree.”
My chest tightened.
Twenty-four hours.
May you like
For three years, Adrian controlled the clock.
Now it belonged entirely to me.
