Chapter 2 - The Face in the Rotunda
"Claire," Vincent breathed, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a violent shiver down my spine.
Noah stepped forward instantly, shifting his six-foot frame to place himself directly between the intimidating stranger and me.
"Can we help you, sir?" Noah asked, his tone crisp, polite, and completely devoid of fear.
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat as he looked up into the face of his own flesh and blood.
He took in the familiar stubborn chin, the dark curls falling over Noah’s forehead, and the fierce, protective fire in his eyes.
Vincent’s chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, his hands trembling slightly at his sides—a sight I had never witnessed in our seven years of marriage.
"You have your mother's courage," Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion he couldn't control.
"Excuse me?" Noah asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
I stepped around Noah, resting my palm flat against my son's chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath his crisp cotton shirt.
"We have nothing to say to you, Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice as cold as ice water.
"Step aside. My son and I have a train to catch."
"Your son?" Vincent choked out, taking half a step closer before Noah’s hand instinctively drifted toward his own hip in a defensive stance.
"Claire... for God's sake, look at him. He has my father's eyes."
"He has my name," I countered, looking dead into the face of the man who had shattered my youth.
"He is Noah Bennett. He owes you nothing, and you owe him even less."
Before Vincent could speak, the clicking of rapid, frantic heels echoed across the marble floor of the rotunda.
Sophia arrived, her designer silk wrap slipping from her shoulders, clutching Ethan’s arm as she pushed through the crowd.
"Vincent, stop this right now!" Sophia pleaded, her voice rising in pitched desperation.
"The board members are waiting in the reception hall! You can't make a scene in front of the university chancellor!"
Vincent didn't look at her; he didn't even turn his head.
His eyes remained locked onto Noah, drinking in eighteen years of stolen history in a single, agonizing glance.
"Who is this guy, Dad?" Ethan asked, chewing gum carelessly as he adjusted his watch.
"Some scholarship kid who thinks he's special?"
Noah turned his gaze toward Ethan, his eyes narrowing with quiet intellectual disdain.
"I don't think I'm special," Noah replied smoothly. "I just didn't need my father's foundation to buy my seat in the lecture hall."
Ethan flushed crimson, stepping forward with an entitled sneer, but Vincent raised his arm like an iron barrier, physically shoving Ethan behind him.
"Shut your mouth, Ethan," Vincent snarled with terrifying venom, shocking both his wife and his younger son into silence.
Vincent turned back to me, his eyes bloodshot and pleading.
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"Claire, please. Just ten minutes. In private."
"Eighteen years too late, Vincent," I whispered, taking Noah’s arm. "Come on, Noah. We're leaving."
