Chapter 5 - Whispers In The Shadows
Three months passed.
Winter thawed into an early, muddy spring across Illinois, but for Vincent Moretti, the world remained permanently frozen.
Without Claire, his personal life had deteriorated into shambles. The penthouse, once his sanctuary, felt like an echoing mausoleum. He had hired three different housekeepers, but none of them could prepare food that didn't trigger his chronic gastritis. He had lost fifteen pounds; his custom-tailored suits now hung loosely over his broad shoulders. Dark purple circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes from chronic insomnia.
His corporate empire was suffering as well. Board meetings were tense battlegrounds where Vincent snapped at the slightest provocation. The news of his sudden firing of Sophia Reynolds had sparked rumors, but his divorce attorney, Marcus Vance, kept Claire's whereabouts locked behind an impenetrable wall of attorney-client privilege.
Vincent had hired five separate investigative firms. All of them returned empty-handed. Claire had completely disconnected from her past life. She had no active social media, her old phone number was permanently disconnected, and her bank accounts remained untouched. It was as if Claire Moretti had stepped into thin air.
Then, on a rainy Tuesday in April, Marcus Kane finally walked into Vincent’s corner office without knocking.
Vincent shot up from his desk, knocking over a pen holder. "Tell me you have something."
Kane placed a single surveillance photograph onto the desk.
Vincent lunged forward, his hands trembling as he picked up the glossy print.
The photograph showed a small, picturesque bakery situated on the brick-paved main street of a quiet coastal town in Maine. Stepping out of the front entrance, holding a brown paper bag of fresh bread, was Claire.
She wore an oversized cream knit sweater, dark leggings, and sturdy boots. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose, effortless knot, and her cheeks were flushed with healthy color. But what caused Vincent’s heart to stop was her silhouette.
Beneath the thick wool of her sweater, her stomach was prominently rounded. She was visibly, unmistakably pregnant—at least five or six months along. In the photograph, she wasn't looking down or crying. She was smiling warmly at an elderly woman holding the bakery door open for her.
She looked radiant. She looked peaceful.
And she looked entirely whole without him.
"Where is this?" Vincent choked out, a hot tear burning down his cheek before he could wipe it away. "Where is she, Kane?"
"Camden, Maine," Kane replied. "She’s living in a modest two-bedroom Victorian cottage on the edge of the harbor. She rented it under her maiden name, Claire Hastings. She’s been doing freelance copyediting for academic journals remotely to pay her rent and groceries. She hasn't touched a single dollar of your funds, Vincent. She bought an old second-hand Volvo with her personal savings from before she married you."
Vincent stared at the photograph, his thumb tracing the gentle curve of Claire’s belly. My child, he thought, a wave of profound awe and shame crashing over him. She is carrying my baby in a small seaside town, buying second-hand cars, while I sit in a hundred-million-dollar tower.
"Prep the Gulfstream," Vincent ordered, his voice cracked with emotion as he grabbed his passport.
"Vincent, wait," Kane warned. "If you show up there with an entourage of bodyguards and lawyers, you will terrify her. Dr. Evans noted in her early records that stress could complicate her pregnancy due to an inverted cervix. If you cause a scene and trigger early contractions, you will never forgive yourself."
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Vincent looked up, Kane's words piercing through his desperation. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. For the first time in his life, Vincent Moretti put his own ego aside.
"I won't bring anyone," Vincent whispered. "No guards. No lawyers. Just me."
