Chapter 2 - The Silent House
The Moretti estate sat perched atop the cliffs of Malibu like an impenetrable glass castle, but tonight it felt like an echoing mausoleum.
Damian pushed through the front doors at midnight, stepping into a suffocating darkness that smelled only of stagnant indoor air and cold stone. He flicked on the grand chandelier switches, illuminating the vast entrance hall that had once been filled with Claire’s gentle laugh and the subtle scent of fresh jasmine.
Every trace of her presence had been systematically erased.
The framed sonogram photo on the entryway credenza was gone, replaced by a circular dust ring. In the kitchen, the baby bottles and state-of-the-art sterilizer he had paid an interior designer to install sat unopened, stripped of their original packaging and dumped unceremoniously into the recycling bin.
The master bedroom was an open wound.
Her walk-in closet was hollowed out, leaving behind only the expensive designer ballgowns and fur coats Damian had bought her for corporate photo ops. She had taken her worn college hoodies, two pairs of walking shoes, and the antique wooden music box her late grandmother had passed down to her.
His phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket, lighting up with Alessia's name for the fifteenth time that night.
He answered with a growl that sounded barely human. "What do you want, Alessia?"
"Damian, baby, where are you?" her honeyed, melodic voice purred through the speaker. "The driver dropped me off at the Beverly Hills bungalow, but none of the staff are answering the gates. You promised we’d have late dinner after you handled that quick hospital thing."
"A quick hospital thing?" Damian whispered, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned under the pressure.
"Well, yes! You said she was just being dramatic about an early contraction," Alessia replied with a light, dismissive chuckle. "I left my diamond tennis bracelet in your carry-on bag, by the way. Can you bring it over before morning?"
Damian pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen as if looking at a venomous snake that had nested in his bed for nearly a year.
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"My son died in her arms while you poured champagne into my glass," he said, each word dropping like an iron weight. "Never call this number again. If your face appears within a mile of my property, my legal team will file every financial audit we have on your father's failing firm."
He terminated the call before she could scream, hurling the phone against the full-length mirror and watching the glass fracture into ten thousand glittering shards.
