Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO WOULDN'T LET ME HOLD MY SON
Claire was sitting beside a window when I entered the café.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically.
Claire had always been slender, with chestnut hair and expressive brown eyes that made lying to her nearly impossible.
But there was a guardedness in the way she sat.
Her back faced the wall.
Her handbag rested against her knee.
She watched the door through the reflection in the window.
Fourteen months had taught her to expect danger.
And I hated knowing that I might be part of the reason.
She saw me.
Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
I stopped several feet from the table.
“Claire.”
“Vincent.”
Her voice nearly broke me.
I had imagined this moment a thousand times.
In some versions, she ran into my arms.
In others, she slapped me.
In none of them did she look at me as though I were a stranger who knew too much about her past.
“May I sit?”
She nodded.
I pulled out the chair.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I noticed her wedding ring.
It hung from a thin silver chain around her neck.
She saw me looking.
“Don't,” she said.
I lowered my eyes.
“I wasn't going to ask.”
“You always ask questions when you've already decided what the answer should be.”
She was right.
I folded my hands on the table.
“I'm here to listen.”
Claire gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“That's new.”
I accepted that too.
Outside, a city bus hissed to a stop.
Inside, the coffee machine steamed.
Ordinary sounds.
Ordinary people.
And between us, fourteen months of damage.
“I know about Emma and Noah,” I said.
Her eyes filled immediately.
She looked toward the window.
“Dr. Mercer told me.”
“Are they healthy?”
“They're better now.”
The answer frightened me.
“Better?”
“Noah spent eleven days in intensive care after he was born. Emma needed oxygen for a while.”
I swallowed.
“I'm sorry.”
She turned back toward me.
“Do you know what the worst part was?”
I shook my head.
“Every time a nurse asked whether their father was coming, I said I didn't know.”
Her voice remained steady.
That made it worse.
“I kept thinking you would show up. Even after everything.”
“I never received your messages.”
“I know that's what you're saying.”
“Claire, someone deleted them.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“Vincent, I called your office. I wrote letters. I went to your building.”
I felt cold.
“What happened?”
“Your security wouldn't let me upstairs.”
“Who?”
“I don't know their names.”
“What did they say?”
“That you had given instructions not to see me.”
I closed my eyes.
She continued.
“Once, when I was five months pregnant, I waited outside in the rain because I thought you might come down.”
I remembered that month.
I had been in New York for business.
Vanessa had told me Claire was harassing the staff.
I had instructed security to handle it.
I had never asked what it meant.
“I failed you,” I said.
Claire blinked.
She had expected excuses.
Perhaps anger.
Not agreement.
“You did,” she whispered.
I nodded.
“I did.”
For the first time, she looked directly at me without hostility.
Only exhaustion.
“Why are you here, Vincent?”
“Because I want to know my children.”
Her expression closed.
“No.”
“I won't force anything.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then help me.”
She reached into her handbag and placed a photograph on the table.
Two babies sat on a blanket.
Emma had Claire's eyes.
Noah had dark hair that stuck up in every direction.
He was holding his sister's sleeve.
I stared at the photograph.
Something deep inside me gave way.
I pressed my thumb against the edge of the paper.
“They're beautiful.”
Claire watched my face.
For a moment, her expression softened.
Then she pulled out a second photograph.
This one showed Noah in a hospital bed.
A breathing tube rested beneath his nose.
His tiny chest was covered with monitoring wires.
“You weren't there,” Claire said.
My throat tightened.
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
She leaned forward.
“You don't know what it feels like to sign medical forms alone when you're terrified your baby might die. You don't know what it feels like to choose between paying rent and buying the formula your daughter can tolerate.”
I couldn't speak.
“And you don't know what it feels like to hear someone tell you that your husband has moved on with the woman who destroyed your marriage.”
I looked up.
“Who told you that?”
Claire's jaw tightened.
“Vanessa.”
“When?”
“She came to the hospital.”
My blood ran cold.
“Which hospital?”
“St. Catherine. Three days after the twins were born.”
“Did she see them?”
Claire nodded.
“She brought flowers.”
I stared at her.
“Vanessa knew about the twins eight months ago?”
Claire looked confused.
“Of course she knew. She said you sent her.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“What did she say?”
Claire swallowed.
“She said you were willing to help financially if I signed papers agreeing never to contact you again.”
“Did you sign?”
“No.”
“Did she leave anything?”
“A folder.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Claire, I need to see it.”
She shook her head.
“No. I'm not getting dragged into another Moretti family war.”
“This isn't about the family business.”
“It always becomes about the family business.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked at the photograph of Noah.
“Then let me do one thing that isn't about business.”
“What?”
“Let me pay his medical bills.”
Claire's eyes flashed.
“We survived without you.”
“I know.”
“We don't need your charity.”
“It's not charity. He's my son.”
Her lips trembled.
For one terrible second, I thought she might cry.
Instead, she stood.
“This was a mistake.”
I rose immediately.
“Claire—”
“Don't follow me.”
I stopped.
She gathered her bag and photographs.
At the door, she turned.
“You want to know something, Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“When Emma says 'Da,' I tell myself she's just making sounds.”
Her eyes shone.
“Because I don't know what else to tell her.”
Then she walked away.
I stood beside the empty table until the waitress asked whether I needed anything.
I shook my head.
My phone rang.
Ethan.
“Boss, we've located Rebecca Shaw.”
“Where?”
“That's the problem.”
“What problem?”
“She died three years ago.”
I frowned.
“Then who signed the hospital authorization?”
“We're working on that. But there's something worse.”
“Tell me.”
“The adoption agency's old records contain a recent application. Someone submitted it two weeks ago.”
“For Emma and Noah?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who signed it?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Claire's signature appears on the consent page.”
I stared through the café window.
Claire had just told me she would never surrender her children.
Ethan continued.
“And the application lists an urgent placement request.”
“For when?”
May you like
His answer turned my blood to ice.
“Tomorrow morning.”
