Chapter 7 - The Long Winter
The Chicago winter arrived with brutal force, burying the city in three feet of pristine white snow.
By February, my belly had grown round and heavy.
Carrying triplets was an exhausting, physical marathon that tested every ounce of my endurance.
My feet were constantly swollen, my back ached relentlessly, and simple tasks like putting on my boots required fifteen minutes of patient maneuvering.
Madison had moved into the brownstone with me, cooking nutritious meals and helping me set up three white wooden cribs in the sunniest upstairs bedroom.
Vincent had obeyed the court orders to the letter.
He didn't call my personal phone.
He didn't show up at my doorstep uninvited.
Instead, every Tuesday morning, a courier would arrive at the front gate with a package addressed in Vincent’s neat, familiar handwriting.
Inside were never diamonds or expensive jewelry.
One week, it was a specialized ergonomic lumbar pillow recommended by the country's top obstetricians.
Another week, it was three hand-carved wooden mobiles made from sustainably sourced birch, each bearing the carved initials of the names I had once mentioned wanting years ago: Liam, Noah, and Grace.
And inside every package was a handwritten note detailing his mandatory therapy sessions, his community service hours, and his progress in stepping down permanently from Moretti Enterprises.
I am learning who Vincent is without the empire, one note read. He was a terrible husband, Claire. But he is working every second of every day to become a man his three children won't be ashamed to know.
I kept the gifts in the nursery.
I never answered the notes.
Healing wasn't a transaction, and five years of neglect couldn't be erased by three months of remorse.
In early March, during a routine 32-week ultrasound, my obstetrician, Dr. Alvarez, frowned at the monitor.
"Your blood pressure is spiking, Claire," Dr. Alvarez said, switching to the doppler feed. "The placenta for baby B is showing slight vascular resistance. We cannot wait until thirty-six weeks."
"What does that mean?" I asked, gripping the paper sheets on the examination table.
"It means we are admitting you to Prentice Women’s Hospital tonight," Dr. Alvarez replied firmly. "You are having these babies by emergency Cesarean section in forty-eight hours."
Panic seized my chest.
Thirty-two weeks was too early.
Their lungs weren't fully developed.
Madison held my hand as the hospital transport wheeled me into the high-risk antepartum wing, the monitors beeping with relentless urgency beside my bed.
As the nurse hooked up the intravenous magnesium drip, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A text message from Arthur Harrison.
May you like
Vincent just surrendered his remaining shares to the Bennett Family Trust for the children. He didn't keep a single dollar of equity. He is completely clean.
I set the phone down and closed my eyes, the cold medicine burning through my veins as the snow tapped against the fifth-floor window.
