Chapter 9 - THE NIGHT THE MORETTI EMPIRE FELLEvelyn Moretti was arrested at 4:32 that afternoon.
Not because Vincent ordered it.
Not because I demanded revenge.
But because the evidence my grandmother and Rose had preserved finally reached federal investigators.
Daniel Mercer had survived eleven years in hiding.
He had given a sworn statement and agreed to testify.
He admitted sabotaging Isabella's car.
He identified Richard Vale as the man who arranged the job.
And he described the payment authorization that led investigators to Evelyn.
But Evelyn insisted she had never intended Isabella to die.
“She was supposed to be frightened,” she told the investigators.
“She was supposed to stop asking questions.”
Vincent stood outside the interview room, watching through the glass.
His mother sat with her hands folded.
Elegant.
Composed.
As though she were attending a charity luncheon.
“She was nineteen,” Vincent whispered.
I stood several feet away.
He turned toward me.
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“Thank you.”
I didn't know what to say.
He rubbed his face.
“For staying with Isabella. For telling the truth. For everything.”
I nodded.
“You're welcome.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “I never deserved you.”
There had been a time when I would have argued.
I would have told him he was wrong.
I would have reminded him of the nights he held me when I couldn't sleep.
Of the small kindnesses that kept me believing our marriage could become something beautiful.
But I was tired of defending a love that had never defended me.
“No,” I said quietly. “You didn't.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
I turned to leave.
“Claire, wait.”
I stopped.
“Can I ask you something?”
I looked back.
“Why did my grandmother choose you?”
I thought about Rose's letter.
About Isabella.
About my own grandmother.
“Because she knew I wouldn't use the truth to become another Evelyn.”
Vincent nodded slowly.
Then his gaze dropped.
For one brief second, I saw him notice the way my coat stretched across my stomach.
His expression changed.
“Claire…”
My heart stopped.
I stepped back.
He stared.
“Are you—”
“Don't.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Vincent froze.
I swallowed.
“This isn't the place.”
His eyes filled with something I had never seen before.
Hope.
And fear.
“Is it mine?”
The question hurt more than I expected.
I stared at him.
“We were married, Vincent.”
“I know.”
“I was faithful to you.”
His face twisted.
“I didn't mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
I looked away.
“I spent three years proving I was worthy of your trust. I'm not doing it again.”
He reached toward me.
Then stopped himself.
“Claire, please.”
I turned back.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I'm pregnant.”
Vincent's entire body went still.
For several seconds, he didn't breathe.
Then he looked at my stomach.
“Our baby?”
I nodded.
He covered his mouth.
I had seen Vincent Moretti face armed men without flinching.
I had watched him negotiate with ruthless businessmen.
I had seen him bury his grandmother with dry eyes.
But now, standing in a federal building, he began to cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silent tears sliding down his face.
“How far along?”
“Fourteen weeks.”
He calculated immediately.
His face crumpled.
“You knew when we divorced.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I looked at him.
“Because I wanted to know whether you would choose me without knowing I was carrying your child.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“And I didn't.”
“No.”
He leaned against the wall.
For a moment, I thought he might fall.
Then he whispered, “I destroyed everything.”
I wanted to comfort him.
That frightened me.
Because even after everything, part of me still remembered the man I had loved.
But love was no longer enough.
“I need you to understand something,” I said.
He looked up.
“You can be this child's father.”
His face lifted.
“But that doesn't mean you get to be my husband again.”
He nodded, tears still falling.
“I understand.”
I wasn't sure he did.
But for the first time, he didn't argue.
Then Madison hurried toward us.
Her face was pale.
“Claire.”
Something in her voice made me turn.
“What happened?”
She held out her phone.
“Richard Vale was found dead.”
Vincent straightened.
“What?”
“His body was discovered in a private hangar.”
I stared at her.
“Who killed him?”
Madison swallowed.
“That's not the worst part.”
She showed me a photograph investigators had recovered from his belongings.
It was a recent picture of a man standing outside a Seattle apartment building.
My apartment building.
The man was older.
Silver-haired.
And he looked disturbingly familiar.
Madison's voice trembled.
“Claire, the DNA results came back.”
I stared at her.
“What DNA results?”
She looked at Vincent.
Then at me.
“The man in this photograph is your biological father.”
My knees weakened.
“That's impossible.”
Madison shook her head.
“He's alive.”
I stared at the screen.
Then I noticed something that made my blood turn cold.
The man wasn't alone.
May you like
Standing beside him was Sophia Reynolds.
And she was smiling.
