Chapter 3 - The Secret Behind the Divorce
Claire called the police before she called Adrian.
That mattered to her.
She refused to become the woman who ran back to her powerful ex-husband the moment she became frightened.
Two officers arrived twenty minutes later.
They photographed the envelope, took the picture as evidence, checked the building entrance and spoke to the superintendent.
The hallway camera had mysteriously stopped recording at 3:14 that afternoon.
Claire’s fear deepened.
One officer asked whether she knew anyone who might threaten her.
She almost laughed.
“I was married to Adrian Moretti.”
The officer stopped writing.
Everyone in New York knew the name.
Moretti Capital owned hotels, shipping interests, commercial real estate and private security companies. Newspapers called Adrian ruthless. Business rivals called him worse.
Claire had once simply called him her husband.
The police had barely left when someone knocked again.
Claire’s entire body stiffened.
“Claire.”
Adrian.
She opened the door but left the chain attached.
“How did you know where I live?”
“I didn’t.”
His eyes dropped to the chain.
“The police contacted Moretti security after you mentioned my name.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Of course.
“Go home.”
“Show me the photograph.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I said no.”
Then she saw his expression.
Not controlling.
Afraid.
She hated that she recognized the difference.
After several seconds, she removed the chain.
Adrian entered.
He looked around the modest apartment.
Claire watched him absorb everything: the secondhand bookshelf, the small dining table, the grocery bag on the counter.
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“You left a penthouse for this?”
“I left you for this.”
He went silent.
Claire handed him a photograph of the threatening message she had taken before police removed the original.
Adrian read it.
Something dangerous entered his eyes.
Claire recognized that expression too.
“No.”
He looked up.
“No what?”
“You are not turning this into some Moretti revenge campaign.”
“Someone threatened my child.”
“My child.”
“Our child.”
“You don’t even know if—”
“It’s mine.”
The certainty in his voice irritated her.
“You asked whose baby it was six hours ago.”
“And I was an idiot six hours ago.”
Despite everything, Claire nearly smiled.
She hated herself for it.
Adrian moved toward the window.
“Pack a bag.”
“No.”
“This address is compromised.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“I spent three years having you make decisions and call it protection. We are not doing that again.”
He turned.
For once, he stopped.
Then he asked, “What would make you feel safe?”
The question surprised her.
She considered it.
“Better locks. Working cameras downstairs. Someone watching the building without following me.”
“Done.”
“And I stay here.”
His jaw flexed.
“Fine.”
“And nobody enters my apartment without permission.”
“Fine.”
“And you don’t get access to my medical records.”
His silence lasted too long.
“Adrian.”
“Fine.”
Claire folded her arms.
“Good.”
He should have left.
Instead, he looked at her stomach.
“May I ask one question?”
“One.”
“When did you find out?”
Claire’s anger weakened.
“Six days before the divorce was finalized.”
Pain crossed his face.
“You knew.”
“I knew.”
“And you signed anyway.”
“You had already chosen.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
Adrian went silent.
There it was.
The wall.
Claire laughed bitterly.
“Exactly.”
She opened the door.
“Good night, Adrian.”
He didn’t move.
“Claire, the reason I ended our marriage had nothing to do with Vanessa.”
“Congratulations.”
“Or another woman.”
She gripped the door.
“Then what?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“My father didn’t die in an accident.”
Claire froze.
She knew Adrian’s father had died when Adrian was twenty-three. A car crash on a wet highway outside Albany.
“At least,” Adrian continued, “I no longer believe it was an accident.”
He removed his coat.
“Eight months ago, Moretti internal security discovered payments connected to the crash. Those payments came through companies still operating today.”
Claire slowly closed the door.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Three weeks after we found the first evidence, someone sent me photographs of you.”
Claire’s face changed.
“Photographs?”
“Leaving work. Shopping. Meeting your sister.”
Her stomach tightened.
“One had a red circle around your head.”
Adrian’s voice dropped.
“Underneath it were the words: Your father chose family over business. Look what it cost him.”
Claire stared at him.
“You never told me.”
“I thought if I pushed you away publicly, whoever was watching would believe you no longer mattered.”
“So you divorced me.”
“Yes.”
“Without giving me a choice.”
“Yes.”
“While letting me believe you stopped loving me.”
His face tightened.
“I never stopped.”
The room went silent.
Claire looked away first.
“No.”
“Claire—”
“No. You do not get to say that and make everything noble.”
“I’m not.”
“You let me spend months wondering what I had done wrong.”
“I know.”
“You made me feel unwanted in my own marriage.”
“I know.”
“And now because there is a baby, you suddenly want honesty?”
Adrian lowered his head.
“Yes.”
It was the simplest answer he had ever given her.
And somehow the most painful.
Claire’s eyes burned.
“Leave.”
He obeyed.
At the doorway, Adrian stopped.
“I’ll have security outside. They won’t approach you.”
Claire said nothing.
He stepped into the hall.
“Adrian.”
He turned.
“Who sent those photographs eight months ago?”
“We never identified them.”
“Then maybe the divorce didn’t protect me at all.”
His face darkened.
“No.”
Claire placed her hand over her child.
“It only made sure I was alone when they came back.”
That night, Adrian reopened every file connected to his father’s death.
At 2:17 a.m., Marco found something.
A payment.
Old.
Buried beneath six shell companies.
The recipient was someone Adrian knew.
Someone who had attended his wedding.
Someone who had encouraged his divorce.
Marco stared at the screen.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“You need to see this.”
Adrian stepped closer.
Then went completely still.
The name at the bottom of the transfer was unmistakable.
May you like
Victor Russo.
Vanessa’s father.
