Chapter 4 - The Sound Of Silence
Vincent Moretti sat at the corner banquette of Le Crillon, the city's most exclusive French bistro, surrounded by the quiet hum of power and wealth. Across from him, Vanessa Reed sipped sparkling water, her tablet propped up beside her plate as she softly briefed him on the upcoming market opening in Frankfurt.
Vincent barely heard her.
He kept glancing down at his watch. 7:45 PM.
His mind was strangely unsettled. Throughout the appetizer and the main course, an unusual prickle of unease had been gnawing at the edges of his concentration. He kept seeing Claire’s face at the hospital corridor—not the gentle, accommodating face she usually wore when he came home late, but a face pale, hollowed by grief, and terrifyingly distant.
She said she was in an accident, he thought, tapping his silver fork against the linen tablecloth. He had assumed it was a minor fender bender; Claire had always been sensitive, easily overwhelmed when things went wrong. He had told himself that she was simply overreacting, seeking his attention because she was jealous of his workload. But the way her voice had cracked... the way she had looked at him as if he were a complete stranger...
""Mr. Moretti?"" Vanessa's melodious voice broke his reverie. ""The German delegation wants a final confirmation on the logistics by nine tomorrow. Should I confirm the nine o'clock breakfast?""
""Clear my morning until ten,"" Vincent said abruptly, his voice sharper than intended.
Vanessa blinked, clearly surprised. ""Sir? You never move the Frankfurt alignment.""
""I have domestic matters to attend to,"" Vincent muttered, pushing his untouched plate of sea bass away. ""Get the bill, Vanessa. It's nearly eight.""
At precisely 7:58 PM, Vincent stepped out of the restaurant into the chill night air while the valet brought around his black Maybach. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved his phone, and saw the notification icon flashing.
A single message from Claire.
He smirked slightly, a wave of familiar arrogance washing over him. Of course, he thought. Right on time. Eight o'clock. She was probably apologizing for her dramatic outburst at the hospital, asking him to pick up some dessert on his way home.
He unlocked the screen and tapped the notification.
The words struck him like a high-voltage current straight to the chest.
Vincent, I was eight weeks pregnant. The accident caused a severe miscarriage. We lost our child today.
Vincent’s breath stopped. The sounds of the city street—the honking taxis, the chatter of pedestrians, the hum of engines—instantly faded into a deafening roar of white noise.
I called your office because I was terrified, bleeding, and needed my husband. But Vanessa told me I wasn't allowed to interrupt your schedule...
His hands began to shake violently. The phone nearly slipped from his numb fingers. Eight weeks pregnant. A baby. A child he had privately longed for during his late-night hours at the desk, lost while he was standing in a hospital lobby ordering tea for his assistant.
I am leaving. Do not look for me. Goodbye.
""No,"" Vincent choked out, a raw, strangled sound tearing from his throat. ""No, no, no!""
He pressed the call button instantly.
The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.
""Drive!"" Vincent roared at his chauffeur as he threw himself into the backseat, slamming the door so hard the luxury sedan shuddered. ""Drive to the penthouse now! Go through the red lights! Move!""
The ten-minute drive was an agonizing eternity. Vincent dialed Claire’s number again and again, twenty times, thirty times, met only with the cold, automated operator. Images flashed through his mind in sickening detail: Claire standing in the hospital gown, clutching her stomach; Claire whispering that she had been in an accident; Vanessa saying smoothly that she had followed his protocols; and him... nodding in agreement.
""God, what have I done?"" Vincent buried his face in his trembling hands, cold sweat drenching his bespoke shirt.
The car screeched to a halt outside the residential tower. Vincent leaped out before the doorman could even open the door, sprinting past the lobby and jamming his key into the private elevator.
The doors slid open into the penthouse.
The apartment was pitch black.
""Claire!"" he shouted, his voice echoing frantically through the vaulted ceilings. ""Claire! Where are you?!""
He flipped on the chandelier switches. The vast living room was immaculate. No sound. No warmth.
He ran into the master bedroom. The closet door stood wide open.
Vincent stepped inside, his chest heaving. One entire side of the expansive walk-in closet was completely stripped bare. All the designer clothes he had bought her were still hanging on their velvet hangers, untouched, like abandoned museum artifacts. Her cheap suitcases, her favorite worn denim jacket, her scuffed canvas sneakers—all gone.
He turned toward the nightstand.
There, illuminated by the bedside lamp, lay her platinum wedding band.
Beside it, the folded note.
Vincent picked up the paper with trembling fingers. Her handwriting was neat, steady, and devoid of tears:
May you like
You gave me fifteen minutes a day, Vincent. I’m giving you the rest of your life back.
Vincent collapsed onto his knees on the hardwood floor, clutching the small slip of paper against his chest as the silence of the empty mansion closed in on him like a suffocating shroud. For the first time in his thirty-five years of life, the powerful Vincent Moretti wept—and no amount of money could buy back the fifteen minutes he had so carelessly thrown away.
