Chapter 3 - The Secret Claire Had Buried
I didn't sleep that night.
At 2:17 a.m., I was still sitting in my study, staring at the photograph of Claire and the twins.
I had enlarged it on my computer.
Oliver was holding a red balloon. Emma had one arm wrapped around her mother's leg.
Claire was smiling.
Not the careful smile she used at charity events.
A real smile.
The kind I hadn't seen in years.
I remembered the woman who used to wait for me at the door, even when I came home after midnight. The woman who learned how to make my mother's favorite soup. The woman who kept every birthday card I ever gave her.
I had mistaken her patience for weakness.
At 7:00 a.m., Michael arrived.
"Did you find anything?"
He placed a folder on my desk.
"Claire's medical records are private, but we located the hospital where she delivered the twins. There was a complication during the birth."
I opened the folder.
"What complication?"
"She developed severe internal bleeding. The twins were delivered prematurely."
My fingers tightened around the paper.
"How long was she hospitalized?"
"Nearly three weeks."
"Who was with her?"
"Daniel Hayes."
I looked up.
"Nobody else?"
Michael hesitated.
"There was one visitor. A woman named Margaret Bennett."
The name meant nothing to me.
"Who is she?"
"Former head nurse at St. Catherine's Hospital. She retired last year."
"Find her."
Michael nodded.
Then I saw another document.
It was a hospital billing statement.
The outstanding balance had been paid in full by a private charitable foundation.
The foundation's name was familiar.
The Moretti Family Children's Fund.
I stared at the page.
"What the hell is this?"
Michael shifted uncomfortably.
"That foundation was established by your late mother."
My mother had died four years earlier.
She had spent much of her life supporting children's hospitals, shelters, and women's charities. I had inherited control of her foundation, but I rarely involved myself in its daily operations.
"Who authorized the payment?"
Michael checked his notes.
"Your mother appointed an independent administrator before she died. The foundation continued operating under her original instructions."
"Who was the administrator?"
"Margaret Bennett."
I leaned back.
The pieces didn't fit.
My mother had died before Claire left.
But somehow, her foundation had paid for the delivery of my children.
"Get me the administrator's records."
Michael looked uncomfortable.
"Sir, there's something unusual about that."
"What?"
"The foundation made several payments connected to Claire before the twins were born."
My pulse quickened.
"How many?"
"Eleven."
I stared at him.
"Eleven?"
"Medical consultations, prescription costs, and one fertility specialist's appointment."
I stood.
"Why was my mother's foundation paying for my wife's fertility treatment?"
Michael opened another page.
"Because your mother specifically requested it."
I felt the room tilt.
My mother knew.
Or at least, she suspected something.
Before I could ask another question, my phone rang.
Sophia.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
"Alexander, where have you been?"
"Busy."
"You haven't called me since yesterday."
"I'm dealing with something."
"Is this about Claire?"
I went still.
"How do you know?"
Sophia sighed.
"People talk. I heard you went to a flower shop."
I closed the folder.
"Who told you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
A long silence followed.
Then she said, "Alexander, don't let guilt make you do something foolish."
I looked at the photograph.
"Did you know Claire was pregnant when I divorced her?"
Silence.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Silence.
"Sophia?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You were with me that afternoon. You saw her outside the restaurant."
"Alexander—"
"Did you see the ultrasound?"
Her breathing changed.
"You're making this sound like I did something wrong."
"Answer me."
She lowered her voice.
"Claire never told you, did she?"
My heart began pounding.
"What?"
"She had seven years to tell you. If she wanted you to know, she could have said something."
"She was holding an ultrasound."
Sophia went quiet.
Then she said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"Maybe she was trying to trap you."
I ended the call.
For the first time, I wondered whether Sophia had known more than she had admitted.
An hour later, Michael returned with an address.
"Margaret Bennett agreed to meet you."
"Where?"
"At St. Catherine's. She still volunteers there."
I drove straight to the hospital.
Margaret was waiting in a small office overlooking the parking lot.
She was in her late sixties, with silver hair and a gentle face.
When I introduced myself, she didn't look surprised.
"Mr. Moretti," she said. "I've wondered when you'd come."
I sat opposite her.
"Did my mother know Claire was pregnant?"
Margaret folded her hands.
"Your mother knew Claire was trying desperately to have a child. She also knew something was wrong with your marriage."
"What did she know?"
Margaret looked at me for a long moment.
"She knew you had been making medical decisions without your wife's knowledge."
My face burned.
"She told you that?"
"Claire did."
I lowered my eyes.
Margaret continued.
"Your mother confronted you once. You told her the matter was private."
I remembered that conversation.
My mother had asked why Claire was still undergoing fertility treatment when I had already decided I didn't want children.
I had told her to stay out of my marriage.
Margaret reached into a drawer and removed a small envelope.
"Your mother asked me to keep this until the day you came looking for Claire."
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
Alexander,
If you're reading this, you've finally discovered what you refused to see when I was alive.
Claire loves you more than she should have to.
I don't know whether you'll ever understand the damage you're doing to her, but I hope you find the courage to face it before it's too late.
There is something you must know.
The day Claire came to see me, she wasn't asking for money.
She was asking whether she could raise a child alone if her husband refused to become a father.
I stopped reading.
My vision blurred.
My mother had known Claire was considering leaving.
She had known I was destroying my marriage.
And she had tried to protect the woman I abandoned.
I looked at Margaret.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Claire asked me not to."
"She was my wife."
Margaret's expression sharpened.
"She was a person before she was your wife, Mr. Moretti. And she had spent years being treated as though her wishes mattered less than yours."
I looked down at the letter.
"Did she ever say she wanted me to meet the children?"
Margaret didn't answer immediately.
Then she said, "There was a reason she didn't tell you about the twins after the divorce."
"What reason?"
"She received a phone call the morning after she left your house."
My heart stopped.
"From whom?"
Margaret opened a second envelope.
"This was included with your mother's instructions."
She slid a printed message across the desk.
The sender's number was unfamiliar.
The message was short.
If Alexander finds out about the pregnancy, neither Claire nor the babies will be safe.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
"Who sent this?"
Margaret shook her head.
"We never found out."
I stood so abruptly that the chair scraped backward.
"Did Claire believe it?"
Margaret looked directly into my eyes.
"She believed it enough to disappear."
And suddenly, I understood that my divorce might not have been the only reason my children had grown up without me.
Someone else had wanted me kept away.
Someone who knew about the pregnancy.
Someone who had been close enough to know exactly when Claire left.
I took the message and slipped it into my pocket.
Then my phone vibrated.
Michael had sent a photograph.
It showed Sophia entering a private office building two days earlier.
The caption beneath it read:
Sir, the building belongs to a company that was once investigated for financial dealings with your former chief financial officer.
I stared at the photograph.
Because the man waiting for Sophia inside that building was someone I recognized.
May you like
My own father.
And according to the official records, he had been dead for six years.
