Chapter 6 - THE FIRST LOVE WHO NEVER LOVED HIMSophia Reynolds had always believed she could control Vincent Moretti.
At twenty-three, she had learned that he hated betrayal.
At twenty-five, she learned that he would forgive almost anything if he believed someone had loved his sister.
At thirty-four, she discovered the terrible difference between forgiveness and blindness.
Vincent was waiting in her penthouse when she returned from the airport.
She stopped in the doorway.
“How did you get in?”
He stood beside the windows.
“You gave me a key.”
Sophia glanced toward the hallway.
Two of Vincent's men stood near the elevator.
“Vincent, I was going to call you.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
He turned.
“Then call me a liar to my face.”
Sophia swallowed.
“What?”
“Tell me you didn't arrange for Claire to be followed.”
She looked away.
“Vincent—”
“Tell me you didn't know someone tried to shoot her.”
“I didn't order that!”
“Then who did?”
Sophia began shaking.
“I don't know.”
Vincent approached her.
“Eleven years ago, you told me Isabella died in your arms.”
“I know.”
“You told me she asked me to forgive myself.”
“I thought it would help.”
“You told me she wanted us to stay together.”
Sophia covered her face.
“I was afraid of losing you.”
Vincent stared at her.
“You didn't lose me because you were afraid.”
He stepped closer.
“You lost me because you made my sister's death about yourself.”
Sophia started sobbing.
“I loved you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes!”
“Then why did you come back to Chicago the week my grandmother died?”
Sophia went silent.
Vincent watched her.
He had asked himself that question repeatedly.
His grandmother, Rose Moretti, had been the one person who insisted Claire deserved respect.
She had also been the person who pushed him to marry Claire.
When Rose died, Sophia returned.
And within weeks, his marriage was over.
Too convenient.
Too perfectly timed.
“Who told you to come back?” Vincent asked.
Sophia shook her head.
“Nobody.”
“Who paid off your debts in London?”
Her eyes widened.
He placed a bank statement on the table.
“Four hundred thousand dollars.”
Sophia stared at it.
“Who paid you?”
She whispered, “Your mother.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
There it was.
The truth he had been trying not to see.
“Why?”
Sophia wiped her face.
“Evelyn wanted Claire gone.”
“Why?”
“She said Claire had something that belonged to your family.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“I don't know.”
He didn't believe her.
Sophia saw it.
“Vincent, I swear.”
He stepped away.
“Then explain the man at the airport.”
Sophia froze.
Vincent held up his phone.
A photograph showed Sophia speaking with the silver-haired stranger.
“Who is he?”
Her lips trembled.
“No one.”
“His name is Richard Vale.”
Sophia went pale.
Vincent continued.
“He was my father's financial adviser.”
Sophia's knees nearly buckled.
“He disappeared after Isabella died.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Why is he back?”
Sophia sank into a chair.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said something Vincent would never forget.
“Because your father didn't die of a heart attack.”
The room went silent.
Vincent felt his heartbeat slow.
“What did you say?”
Sophia looked up.
“Anthony Moretti was poisoned.”
Vincent stared at her.
“And you knew?”
She nodded.
“Who did it?”
Sophia began crying again.
“I don't know.”
Vincent stepped toward her.
“Who?”
She shook her head violently.
“Please don't make me say it.”
He leaned down.
“Was it my mother?”
Sophia looked at him.
Her silence was answer enough.
Meanwhile, I was on a plane to Seattle.
Madison had arranged a private apartment near the waterfront.
I had turned off my old phone.
For the first time in years, I could imagine a future that didn't revolve around Vincent Moretti.
A small home.
A job at a hospital.
A nursery painted pale yellow.
A child who would never have to wonder whether their father wanted them.
But when I landed, Madison was waiting with an expression I didn't recognize.
“What happened?” I asked.
She took my suitcase.
“Claire, we need to talk.”
We drove in silence.
At her apartment, she opened her laptop.
On the screen was a scanned document.
A trust agreement.
My grandmother's signature appeared at the bottom.
Madison pointed to a paragraph.
“Your grandmother left you something.”
I frowned.
“She left me her house.”
“Not just the house.”
Madison turned the laptop toward me.
I read the document.
Once.
Twice.
Then I looked up.
“This can't be right.”
Madison's face was pale.
“It's real.”
I stared at the amount listed.
Two hundred and forty million dollars.
Held in a private trust.
Established eleven years earlier.
And the person who funded it?
May you like
Rose Moretti.
Vincent's grandmother.
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