Chapter 10 - THE DIVORCE PAPERS HE SIGNED
Vincent signed the divorce papers three days later.
No argument.
No negotiation.
No attempt to bury me in attorneys.
He signed exactly where my lawyer marked.
Then he placed my wedding ring inside the envelope.
There was no note.
That hurt more than I expected.
I moved into a small apartment in Brooklyn Heights.
Not one Vincent owned.
Not one his company managed.
Mine.
I started working again.
Before marriage, I had been an interior architect.
Vincent never forced me to quit.
He didn’t need to.
His life expanded until mine naturally became smaller.
Charity events.
Business dinners.
Travel.
Hosting.
Waiting.
I called my former firm.
My old partner, Rachel, said:
“You’re seven years late.”
Then hugged me and gave me an office.
For the first month, Vincent contacted me only through attorneys when necessary.
No flowers.
No cars.
No guards hiding across the street.
When Detective Harris recommended protection until Matteo’s trial, Vincent offered to pay.
I said no.
He accepted that too.
It was infuriating.
I had spent years wishing he would listen.
Now that he finally did, I kept waiting for him to stop.
He didn’t.
Three months passed.
Matteo was indicted on conspiracy, fraud, attempted murder, and multiple financial crimes.
Vanessa accepted a plea agreement.
Gabriel returned to security work after his daughter was moved somewhere safe.
Moretti Holdings changed too.
Vincent removed three relatives from leadership.
Closed businesses tied to Matteo.
Turned over financial records voluntarily.
The press called it a civil war inside the Moretti empire.
I called it none of my business.
Then Rachel placed a magazine on my desk.
Vincent was on the cover.
MORETTI CEO WALKS AWAY FROM FAMILY CONTROL.
I read despite myself.
He had resigned from daily leadership.
Created an independent board.
Sold several properties.
And donated the old private executive floor to become an employee childcare and family-support center.
I hated that I was proud of him.
That night, I attended my first pregnancy-loss support group.
I almost left before entering.
Then a woman beside me smiled.
“First time?”
“Yes.”
“Mine too.”
So I stayed.
For ninety minutes, nobody asked me whose wife I was.
Nobody cared what Vincent owned.
I was simply Claire.
A woman who had lost a baby.
Afterward, I walked home alone.
Snow had started falling.
Across the street from my building stood Vincent.
My heart stopped.
He didn’t approach.
I crossed instead.
“What are you doing here?”
He looked almost embarrassed.
“Rachel called me.”
I frowned.
“She shouldn’t have.”
“She said your office alarm went off and she couldn’t reach you.”
I checked my phone.
Dead battery.
“I was at a meeting.”
He nodded.
Then his eyes moved toward the community-center pamphlet in my hand.
He understood immediately.
Pain moved across his face.
“I’ve been attending one too.”
I stared.
“What?”
“A fathers’ group.”
The word caught in my chest.
Fathers.
Neither of us had ever called him that.
Vincent looked down.
“I didn’t know whether I was allowed to grieve like one.”
My anger disappeared for one dangerous second.
“You were the baby’s father.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Then he told me something he had never said aloud.
He had named the baby privately.
Not because he knew whether it was a boy or girl.
Just because saying “the miscarriage” felt unbearable.
“What name?”
“Hope.”
May you like
I stopped breathing.
Because in my own journal, two months earlier, I had written the exact same name.
