Chapter 2 - THE QUESTION HE HAD NO RIGHT TO ASK
Alexander stared at my stomach as though the child beneath my heart had personally betrayed him.
“Your ex-husband?” he finally repeated.
I adjusted the strap of my handbag. “You heard me.”
His jaw tightened.
“When did you get divorced?”
I almost laughed.
“Does it matter? You told me six months ago that I shouldn't come back regretting my decision. I haven't.”
Sophia stood beside him, watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read.
“Alexander,” she whispered, “perhaps we should let her go.”
He didn't move.
“Claire, I want an answer.”
“You lost the right to demand answers when you took off your wedding ring.”
A nurse stepped out of the examination room.
“Mrs. Bennett? The doctor is ready for you.”
I walked toward her.
Alexander caught my wrist.
Not roughly, but firmly enough to stop me.
“Is the baby mine?”
The question hung between us.
For one terrible second, I remembered the man I had married. The man who used to warm my hands between his palms during Chicago winters. The man who once stayed awake all night beside my hospital bed when I had food poisoning.
Then I remembered the banquet.
His ring disappearing into his jacket.
His arms around Sophia.
I gently pulled free.
“You should ask the man who wears the ring.”
The nurse looked uncomfortable.
“Sir, please. She needs to go inside.”
Alexander stepped aside.
I entered the examination room without looking back.
But I could hear his voice through the closing door.
“Find out everything about her.”
My stomach twisted.
That was Alexander Moretti. Even heartbreak became an investigation when it happened to him.
Inside, Dr. Miller greeted me with a reassuring smile.
“Everything looks good, Claire. The baby's heartbeat is strong.”
The familiar rhythmic sound filled the room.
For a moment, the world outside disappeared.
Then Dr. Miller noticed my expression.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” I whispered. “I just need this baby to be safe.”
She lowered her voice.
“Is the man outside the father?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Finally, I nodded.
Dr. Miller glanced toward the door.
“Would you like security to escort you out through another entrance?”
“Yes.”
I was no longer willing to risk my child's safety to protect Alexander's feelings.
Twenty minutes later, I left through a side corridor and took a cab home.
But Alexander was waiting.
His black SUV stood across the street from my small apartment building. He leaned against it, his expensive coat open, his expression darker than the winter sky.
I considered turning around.
Then I remembered I wasn't his prisoner anymore.
I walked toward him.
“How did you find me?”
“Your medical records listed your emergency contact.”
I stared at him.
“You used your connections to access my private medical information?”
“I needed to know whether you were safe.”
“You don't get to decide what I need anymore.”
His eyes dropped to my stomach.
“Five years, Claire. We were married for five years.”
“And how many of those years did you make me feel like your wife?”
He looked away.
“I made mistakes.”
“You removed your wedding ring because your first love returned.”
“I didn't know she would come back.”
“That wasn't the problem. The problem was that you were prepared to pretend I didn't exist the moment she did.”
He stepped closer.
“Nothing happened between Sophia and me.”
I smiled bitterly.
“You don't understand. I don't care what happened between you and Sophia. I care about what happened between you and me.”
His phone rang.
The name displayed on the screen was Sophia.
He rejected the call.
For the first time, I saw hesitation in his face.
“Come home,” he said. “We can talk about this privately.”
I shook my head.
“I already have a home.”
“Claire—”
“And don't send your men after me.”
I walked past him.
He didn't stop me.
That evening, I received a message from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph.
Alexander was standing outside my apartment building, speaking to one of his men.
Below the photograph was a single sentence.
You think leaving him makes you safe? Ask him what happened to the last woman who tried.
My blood ran cold.
I stared at the screen until another message arrived.
This time, it was a photograph of an old newspaper clipping.
A woman named Isabella Moretti.
Alexander's first wife.
I had never heard that name before.
And beneath her photograph, someone had circled the date of her disappearance.
May you like
It was exactly three years before Alexander and I had met.
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