Chapter 3 - THE JOB HE BOUGHT WITHOUT TELLING ME
Alexander followed me into the foyer.
“Claire, stop.”
I turned so fast my suitcase struck the wall.
“You bought part of my company?”
“I approved a portfolio acquisition.”
“You knew where I worked.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Germany had been offered.”
“No.”
“Do not lie again.”
His face hardened.
“I didn’t.”
I studied him.
For once, I believed him.
That did not help much.
“You still bought influence over the one thing in my life that was mine.”
“I didn’t know Stratton & Vale employed you when the deal began.”
“You were married to me.”
“I knew your title. I didn’t track every corporate ownership layer.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
He exhaled.
“I can divest.”
“I don’t want favors.”
“It’s not a favor.”
“It always is with you.”
Everything in Alexander’s world came with strings.
Cars.
Homes.
Security.
Jewelry.
Even protection.
I had spent three years surrounded by luxury and never realized how little freedom I possessed until I tried to walk away.
“I’m still taking the job.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then take it.”
I stared.
“You’re not stopping me?”
“No.”
His mother spoke from behind us.
“Alexander.”
He ignored her.
Claire, he said:
“If Germany is what you want, go.”
That was the first correct thing he had said all day.
It was also eighteen months too late.
I left.
The next morning, I boarded a flight to Frankfurt.
I expected Alexander to appear at the airport.
He didn’t.
I expected his security at the gate.
None.
I expected messages.
Nothing.
For the first time in years, he respected a boundary.
I hated that part of me noticed.
Germany was cold, unfamiliar, and exactly what I needed.
I found a temporary apartment overlooking the Main River.
Started work.
Changed my routines.
Learned which bakery opened before seven.
Worked until exhaustion replaced grief.
Then, six weeks later, an envelope arrived at my office.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph of Sophia holding the twins.
Both babies wore hospital bracelets.
One said:
MATTEO MORETTI.
The other:
LUCA MORETTI.
I almost threw it away.
Then I noticed something.
The birth dates.
The twins had been born at thirty-four weeks.
Premature.
But according to Alexander’s story, conception happened after the failed IVF cycle.
The dates did not match.
Not by nearly a month.
I called my friend Rachel, an OB nurse back in Chicago.
I gave her the timeline.
She calculated silently.
Then said:
“Claire, if those babies were thirty-four weeks at delivery, they were conceived before Alexander says he slept with Sophia.”
My pulse quickened.
“How far before?”
“At least three weeks.”
That meant the one-night affair could not have caused the pregnancy.
Alexander had lied again.
Or Sophia had.
The next morning, another envelope arrived.
This one contained a laboratory report.
Paternity test.
Alexander Moretti.
Probability of paternity:
May you like
0.00%.
The twins were not Alexander’s children.
