Chapter 6 - A Mother’s Ultimatum
While Vincent was unraveling in the courts, the social fallout in Chicago’s elite circles was swift and merciless.
Vincent’s mother, Eleanor Moretti, was a matriarch who ruled the Italian-American charity circuit with an iron fist. For five years, she had treated me with polite condescension, constantly reminding me at Easter dinners and Thanksgiving luncheons that my medical career was ""a lovely hobby,"" but that a true Moretti woman’s primary duty was to provide heirs to the family legacy.
On a cold Sunday afternoon, Eleanor arrived at my private residence—the historic brownstone in Lincoln Park that had been purchased using a substantial inheritance from my own maternal grandfather.
Because the house was titled exclusively in my maiden name, Vincent had no legal claim to it, and my private security team permitted Eleanor to enter the front parlor.
She sat on the cream velvet sofa, her mink coat draped over her shoulders, her diamond rings clinking against the delicate china teacup I had set before her.
""Claire,"" Eleanor began, her voice carrying the practiced, haughty tone of an elder who expected immediate obedience. ""This public circus has gone on long enough. The papers are talking. The bishop mentioned the scandal to your father-in-law at church this morning. Vincent has moved into a temporary rental near the river, and the family name is being dragged through the gutter by every gossip blog in Illinois.""
I sat opposite her, holding a cup of hot lemon water, dressed in comfortable leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater that discreetly concealed my twelve-week baby bump.
""If the family name is in the gutter, Eleanor, you should take that up with your son,"" I replied smoothly. ""He is the one who fathered an illegitimate child with Thomas Reed's daughter while wearing my wedding ring.""
Eleanor set her teacup down with a sharp clatter. ""Men have weaknesses, Claire! It has been the way of the world since the dawn of time! A wise woman ignores the passing distractions of the flesh and focuses on the empire! Vanessa Reed has delivered a boy into this family—a child carrying Moretti blood!""
I raised an eyebrow, struggling to conceal the grim amusement rising inside me. ""A child carrying Moretti blood? Is that what Vincent told you?""
""Of course he did!"" Eleanor declared proudly, leaning forward. ""He showed me the ultrasound photos last week! He showed me the trust papers! The child will be christened Thomas Vincent Moretti at Holy Name Cathedral this spring! As the family matriarch, I am prepared to overlook your dramatic legal filings if you drop the divorce, take Vincent back, and agree to raise the boy as your own. We will pay Vanessa off, send her to Europe, and preserve the family business!""
The sheer audacity of her proposal took my breath away. She genuinely expected me to forgive five years of psychological neglect, forgive a three-year affair, and raise another woman’s donor-conceived child to save Vincent’s reputation.
""Eleanor,"" I said softly, leaning across the coffee table. ""Did Vincent mention the clinical details of how that child was conceived?""
Eleanor scoffed, waving a manicured hand. ""Natural or medical assistance, what does it matter? The boy is his son!""
""No, Eleanor,"" I said, pulling a single printed sheet from the side table and laying it before her. ""The boy is the biological son of Donor 409-Delta from the Midwest Cryogenic Bank. Vincent has non-obstructive azoospermia. He has been completely sterile since he had severe bilateral mumps during his sophomore year at Notre Dame—a medical fact your son hid from me for five years while letting you insult my fertility at every Sunday dinner.""
Eleanor’s hand froze in midair. She looked down at the genetic testing report, her eyes darting across the lab certifications, the sperm donor manifest, and the medical signatures.
""This... this is a forgery,"" she stammered, her regal composure fracturing like thin glass. ""Vincent is my son! He is strong! He could never—""
""Call Gold Coast yourself, Eleanor,"" I interrupted, my voice dropping into a hard, unforgiving tone. ""Call Donald Pierce. Ask him why the trust board for the Thomas Reed estate rejected Vanessa's inheritance application yesterday morning. There is no thirty-million-dollar fund coming. There is no Moretti bloodline in that cradle. Your son was swindled by a con artist because his own narcissism wouldn't let him admit he was sterile.""
Eleanor stared at the paper, her chest heaving, the reality collapsing over her with the force of an avalanche.
""And there's one more thing you should know,"" I added, placing my hand gently over my sweater-covered abdomen.
May you like
Eleanor’s gaze dropped to my stomach, her eyes widening in horror and confusion. ""Claire... what are you saying?""
""I am twelve weeks pregnant,"" I said, a proud, peaceful smile gracing my face. ""With a baby conceived before Thanksgiving. And unlike Vanessa's child, this baby's paternity will be settled in open court next month. Now, take your coat and get out of my house.""
