Chapter 9 - The Choice
Matteo woke before Abigail could scream.
Years of instinct did what sleep could not suppress.
He saw the stranger.
Saw the locked door.
Saw Abigail’s face.
And moved.
The man reached beneath his scrubs.
Matteo slammed him against the wall.
A syringe fell onto the floor.
Abigail hit the emergency button.
The stranger fought wildly.
Matteo drove him down.
Security arrived seconds later.
The man was not Richard.
He was a former Sinclair employee.
The syringe contained a powerful sedative.
His instructions had been simple.
Take Abigail through the service elevator.
Deliver her alive.
To Richard.
The hospital went into lockdown.
Police traced the man’s burner phone.
For the first time, they found Richard.
An abandoned Sinclair estate in Westchester.
Matteo wanted to go.
Abigail grabbed his hand.
“No.”
“He threatened you.”
“And police are going.”
“He killed my father.”
“Exactly.”
She looked directly into his eyes.
“Your father told you not to build your life around revenge.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“You read the letter.”
“So did you.”
For several seconds, anger battled grief across his face.
Then Matteo sat.
He stayed.
Richard Sinclair was arrested at 5:42 that morning.
No gunfight.
No cinematic escape.
No final act of power.
He walked out in handcuffs while cameras recorded everything.
For a man obsessed with appearing untouchable, perhaps that was the cruelest ending available.
Months of investigation followed.
Richard was charged in connection with Antonio Romano’s death, obstruction, bribery, witness intimidation, conspiracy and several financial crimes.
Thomas Reed testified.
So did Vanessa.
So did Abigail.
Daniel Mercer accepted a plea agreement related to witness intimidation and illegal access to medical information.
His attempt to establish custody disappeared after investigators documented his involvement with Sinclair.
Abigail did not celebrate.
She simply breathed easier.
At thirty-seven weeks, she moved into a small apartment overlooking a park.
She paid for it herself.
Matteo hated the neighborhood’s parking.
That became a recurring argument.
“You own a driver.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“You own several cars.”
“Also irrelevant.”
“You own hotels.”
“I’m beginning to regret telling you anything.”
Abigail smiled.
Their relationship existed in a strange middle ground.
Matteo visited.
Often.
Too often for friendship.
Not often enough for either of them.
He assembled the baby’s crib.
Incorrectly.
Abigail stared at the leftover screws.
“Should there be six of those?”
“No.”
“You answered very fast.”
“The manufacturer includes extras.”
“All six?”
“Apparently generous people.”
The crib collapsed five seconds later.
Abigail laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Matteo stared at the wreckage.
“I run a multinational hospitality company.”
“Congratulations.”
“I negotiate nine-figure contracts.”
“And yet the crib defeated you.”
“I dislike the crib.”
“The crib is afraid.”
Eventually Luca assembled it in eleven minutes.
Matteo threatened to fire him for smiling.
He did not.
One Sunday afternoon, Isabella brought baby clothes.
Vanessa arrived with diapers.
The two women still disliked each other enough to create entertaining silence.
Abigail watched them arguing over which stroller was safest.
Something strange happened.
Her tiny apartment filled with people.
Not employees.
Not wealthy benefactors.
People who simply wanted to be there.
She had spent years believing independence meant never needing anyone.
Now she began understanding that choosing people was different from depending helplessly on them.
That evening, after everyone left, Matteo stood by the window.
“Abigail.”
She looked up.
“I need to tell you something.”
His seriousness made her nervous.
“Okay.”
“I’ve been avoiding it because your life has been complicated enough.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It probably is.”
He walked closer.
“When I found you in that ballroom, I thought I owed you a debt.”
“You don’t.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“That became clear very quickly.”
She smiled.
“Because I’m difficult?”
“Extremely.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m not finished.”
She became quiet.
Matteo looked at her the way he had looked at her name tag that first night.
Except there was no memory in his eyes now.
Only the present.
“I don’t want you in my life because you saved Isabella.”
Abigail’s heart accelerated.
“I want you in it because when something frightens you, you make jokes. Because you argue with me when everyone else agrees. Because you believe kindness only matters when nobody owes you for it.”
He inhaled.
“And because every room feels different when you leave.”
Abigail’s eyes burned.
“Matteo…”
“I’m not asking you for an answer.”
“Good.”
His face fell slightly.
She smiled.
“Because I’m about to have a baby and your timing is terrible.”
“Historically, my timing has been excellent.”
“Your first romantic confession happened at thirty-seven weeks pregnant.”
“Fair.”
She reached for his hand.
“But I’m not saying no.”
Hope appeared in his face.
“I’m saying slow.”
“I can do slow.”
“You had six security guards follow me to a grocery store.”
“That was security.”
“One was in produce.”
“Danger can happen near vegetables.”
She laughed.
Then leaned forward and kissed him.
Softly.
Briefly.
Matteo froze.
When she pulled away, his expression was almost comical.
“That,” he said, “did not feel slow.”
“It lasted two seconds.”
“I have concerns about my ability to remain objective.”
She laughed again.
Then suddenly stopped.
Matteo panicked.
“What?”
Abigail stared down.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
“My water broke.”
Matteo looked at the floor.
Then at her.
Then toward the collapsed cardboard crib box.
“Again?”
Abigail grabbed his arm as a contraction hit.
“This time,” she gasped, “she’s actually coming.”
Three hours later, Matteo stood beside Abigail in the delivery room.
She squeezed his hand hard enough to threaten bone.
At 11:48 p.m., a baby girl cried.
Abigail collapsed against the pillows.
The nurse placed the tiny child on her chest.
Matteo stared.
He had no words.
Abigail cried.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
The baby opened dark blue eyes.
Matteo touched one impossibly tiny hand.
Her fingers closed around his.
He stopped breathing.
Abigail looked at him.
“Matteo?”
His eyes were wet.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I am absolutely not.”
“You absolutely are.”
The nurse smiled.
Then asked the question.
“Have you chosen her name?”
Abigail looked at Matteo.
Then at Isabella waiting beyond the doors.
At the life that had somehow grown out of one terrible night eight years earlier.
“Yes.”
She kissed her daughter’s forehead.
“Caroline Isabella Foster.”
Matteo closed his eyes.
Her mother.
His sister.
Two women connected by a night neither family would ever forget.
Abigail smiled down at Caroline.
For the first time in years, the future did not frighten her.
But one question remained.
May you like
What happened when a woman who had spent her entire life surviving finally had enough people around her to begin living?
She was about to find out.
