Chapter 4 - THE BOY WHO WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO EXIST
Vincent read the hospital bracelet's name again.
Noah Carter.
Sophia's son.
The boy he'd chased across his lawn. The child he'd promised to educate. The little boy who sometimes climbed into his lap and called him Uncle Vince.
Vincent sank onto the stone bench outside the mausoleum.
He'd spent years telling himself that the baby Sophia lost was a tragedy he had no power to change.
His father had assured him the child was gone.
His mother had cried when he asked questions.
And Sophia had eventually moved on.
Now an old caretaker was telling him the child had lived.
"Where did the ambulance take him?" Vincent demanded.
"I don't know. Your father had men guarding the entrance. They said the child needed specialized treatment."
"Who authorized it?"
"Your father's attorney."
Vincent looked at the envelope again.
A name was written inside.
Richard Vale.
The attorney had been dead for three years.
Vincent called Daniel.
"Find everything Richard Vale ever handled for my father. Medical payments, trusts, guardianships, private accounts. Everything."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't tell anyone why."
"Understood."
Vincent hung up and stared at the photograph.
If Noah was his biological son, then Sophia had concealed the truth for years.
But why?
And why had his father helped her?
The answer came that evening in the form of an old financial record Daniel uncovered in a sealed archive.
A trust had been established shortly before Vincent's wedding. It provided a monthly payment to a woman named Elena Brooks, a former nurse at St. Catherine's Hospital.
The payments had continued for eleven years.
Three months ago, they had stopped.
Daniel placed the documents on Vincent's desk.
"There's more, sir."
He slid over a second page.
"The trust was funded by your father. But the final authorization was signed by someone else."
Vincent studied the signature.
Sophia Carter.
"Find Elena Brooks," he said.
Daniel hesitated.
"She's missing."
"Since when?"
"Three months ago."
Vincent's jaw tightened.
"The same month the payments stopped?"
"Yes."
For the first time, he wondered whether Sophia's carefully constructed story had been designed to keep him close enough to provide money but distant enough never to ask questions.
Then he remembered Claire.
She'd asked him whether he wanted children.
He'd shrugged.
He'd told her there was no reason to rush.
Meanwhile, he had spent years playing the role of a father to a boy whose history he didn't understand.
The irony was cruel.
He had denied his wife the family she wanted while giving another woman's child the attention he should have given his own.
And he had done it all without knowing the truth.
Across the ocean, I was sitting in a small clinic in Zurich, listening to a doctor explain that my pregnancy appeared healthy.
The baby was still tiny. There was no reason to panic.
Yet I found myself asking questions I'd never thought to ask before.
Could stress affect the pregnancy?
Could I travel safely?
What warning signs should I watch for?
The doctor answered each question patiently, then handed me a folder of information.
"You seem very anxious," she observed.
"My husband and I are separating."
"Does he know about the pregnancy?"
"Yes."
"Is he supportive?"
I thought of Vincent screaming at airport personnel.
"He wants me to come home."
"That isn't the same thing."
I looked up.
The doctor smiled gently.
"You don't have to make every decision today. Focus on staying safe and taking care of yourself."
For the first time since leaving Chicago, I felt something resembling hope.
I could build a life here.
I could learn to be a mother without waiting for Vincent's permission to be happy.
Then my phone rang.
An unfamiliar Chicago number.
I almost ignored it.
"Claire Bennett?"
"Yes."
"My name is Margaret Ellis. I was a nurse at St. Catherine's Hospital eleven years ago."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"How did you get my number?"
"Your husband is looking for answers. But I need to speak with you before he finds me."
"Why me?"
"Because you deserve to know what kind of family you're bringing your child into."
I stood.
"Are you talking about Sophia?"
"I'm talking about Vincent's father. And the baby everyone was told had died."
My heart began pounding.
"What happened to that baby?"
Margaret lowered her voice.
"The child survived. But the story didn't end there."
"What does that mean?"
"It means someone changed the records. Someone paid to erase a birth. And someone has been making sure Vincent never learns the truth."
"Who?"
Before she could answer, I heard a crash on her end of the line.
A man's voice shouted something.
Margaret gasped.
Then the call ended.
I tried calling back.
The number was disconnected.
I called Amelia into the room and told her everything.
She immediately contacted a lawyer she trusted, who advised us not to confront anyone until we knew whether Margaret was safe.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the nurse's final words.
Someone had erased a birth.
Someone had lied about a child.
And someone was willing to silence a witness.
That night, I opened the photograph again.
I noticed something I'd missed before.
In the background, reflected in the glass of the hospital door, stood an older man wearing a dark suit.
Vincent's father.
But he wasn't looking at the newborn.
He was looking directly at the camera.
And pinned to his lapel was a small silver emblem.
The same emblem appeared on the signet ring Vincent wore every day.
The Moretti family crest.
I called Vincent before I could talk myself out of it.
He answered on the first ring.
"Claire?"
"Vincent, I need you to listen carefully."
"I'm listening."
"I spoke to a nurse from St. Catherine's."
His breathing changed.
"What did she tell you?"
"That your father arranged for a baby to disappear."
Silence.
Then Vincent asked a question that chilled me.
"Did she tell you who took him?"
"No."
He exhaled.
"Then don't trust anyone who approaches you about this."
"Why?"
"Because the last person who asked my father about that baby was my mother."
May you like
He paused.
"She died two weeks later."
