Chapter 8 - The Ashes of Moretti
The groan that tore out of Vincent’s throat sounded like an animal caught in a steel trap. He collapsed forward, his forehead coming to rest against my shoulder as he broke down entirely, sobbing with a level of agony that stopped traffic on the street.
His broad shoulders shook violently. "No... Claire, no... God, what did I do? What did I do to us?"
I didn't push him away. But I didn't wrap my arms around him, either. I stood still, letting him mourn the death of what we were, feeling the bitter cold rain soak through my coat.
"You traded a diamond for cheap glass," I whispered into his ear. "And the tragedy is, you already knew how fake Sophia was. You just wanted to feel young again. You wanted to feel like the powerful man who could conquer everything, even the girl who got away in college."
"I never loved her," he wept, his tears soaking into my collar. "I swear to God on my mother's soul, Claire, I never touched her. Not once. I was stupid, I was vain, but I never slept with her. I only ever loved you."
"I know you didn't sleep with her, Vincent," I said softly.
He pulled back, his face a swollen, tortured mask of hope and confusion. "You believe me?"
"The private investigator I hired three months ago had your car and her apartment bugged," I said, a faint, melancholic smile touching my lips. "I know you turned her down when she tried to kiss you in the elevator. I know you pulled your hand away two minutes after the waiter brought that cake."
Vincent blinked, totally paralyzed. "You... you knew that, and you still ordered the cake? You still left?"
"Yes," I said with total clarity. "Because betrayal doesn't start in the bed, Vincent. It starts in the mind. It starts the moment you decided that my dignity was worth less than Sophia's flattery. It starts when you told me you were working late so you could feel like a hero to a woman who hated me. The physical act is just the funeral. You dug the grave months ago."
I gently took the medical paper from his limp fingers and folded it back into my bag.
"The divorce is finalized, Vincent. The judge signed the decree an hour ago. You are a free man. Go rebuild your life. Go find out who you are without my software, without Marcus’s schemes, and without me."
"Claire, don't leave me," he begged, reaching out, but his fingers only brushed the cold sleeve of my coat as I stepped backward. "I will spend the rest of my life making this right. I will wait for you. If it takes twenty years, I won't look at another woman. I will wait until I'm an old man."
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"Don't wait for a ghost, Vincent," I said. "Because the Claire who loved you died at that restaurant table."
I turned, walked to Lauren’s car, and closed the heavy door behind me. The engine purred to life, and we glided into the stream of traffic, leaving Vincent standing alone in the downpour, clutching the silver key to an empty past.
