Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Stole Seventeen MonthsCeleste arrived at Moretti Holdings the following morning demanding access to her office.
She did not get past the lobby.
There was a certain symmetry in that.
The same polished marble floor where she had stopped Claire now stopped her.
I watched from the mezzanine while two security officers explained that her credentials had been suspended.
She looked up.
Saw me.
And smiled.
Even then.
Even after everything.
Celeste believed confidence could turn reality into whatever shape she needed.
I came downstairs.
“Conference room.”
She followed me.
Marcus was already inside.
So was our corporate counsel, Rebecca Shaw.
Celeste stopped when she saw them.
“This is dramatic.”
I sat across from her.
“Did you access communications from Claire without my authorization?”
She crossed her legs.
“I handled administrative noise.”
Rebecca spoke.
“Please answer the question.”
Celeste glanced at her.
“I don’t answer to company lawyers.”
“You did yesterday.”
Celeste turned toward me.
“Vincent, this is humiliating.”
“Did you intercept Claire’s pregnancy notifications?”
Silence.
“Did you send responses using my authorization stamp?”
Her composure began cracking.
“You told me you wanted her out of your life.”
“That isn’t authorization.”
“You gave me full access.”
“To scheduling.”
“And personal correspondence.”
“Not medical notifications concerning my unborn children.”
“They weren’t children yet.”
Marcus shifted.
I raised one hand.
He stayed silent.
“What did you say?”
Celeste exhaled.
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I want to hear exactly what you mean.”
“She was pregnant. You didn’t even know whether they were yours.”
My voice became quiet.
“They are my son and daughter.”
“And she knew exactly what having them would do.”
“What?”
“Bring you back.”
There it was again.
The obsession beneath everything.
Celeste leaned forward.
“Claire always knew how to control you.”
I almost admired the audacity.
“Claire left me.”
“To punish you.”
“She left because I betrayed her.”
“You and I happened because your marriage was already dying.”
“No.”
Celeste blinked.
“No?”
“No. You happened because I was selfish.”
The room went still.
I had blamed Claire privately for months.
Her criticism.
Her independence.
Her refusal to flatter me.
Her unwillingness to ignore the ways Celeste flirted.
I had built an entire story in which my betrayal was an inevitable consequence of being misunderstood.
It was easier than admitting the truth.
I wanted admiration without accountability.
Celeste offered it.
So I took it.
“You didn’t destroy my marriage alone,” I said. “I did most of that myself.”
Her lips tightened.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because destroying my marriage wasn’t enough for you.”
I slid copies of the access logs across the table.
“You interfered with communications about my children.”
Celeste stared at them.
“You impersonated me.”
Another document.
“You turned away my pregnant wife while she was standing twelve floors beneath my office.”
Another.
“And then you told me you had handled a problem.”
Celeste’s face went pale.
I leaned back.
“Your employment is terminated.”
“You can’t—”
“It already is.”
“You’ll regret this.”
“Perhaps.”
“You think Claire is going to take you back?”
“This isn’t about getting Claire back.”
Celeste laughed.
“That’s a lie.”
“No.”
I thought of Eleanor holding my finger.
Noah falling onto his diaper.
Claire’s exhausted face.
“If Claire never lets me inside her life again, you’re still finished here.”
Something ugly entered Celeste’s eyes.
“You think you’re suddenly a good man because you changed one diaper?”
“I haven’t changed one yet.”
Marcus coughed.
I glanced at him.
He looked away.
Celeste stood.
“You chose me.”
The words were sharp.
I said nothing.
“You brought me into your home. You slept beside me while she was still your wife. You let me sit at your table. You defended me when she objected.”
Every word was true.
Celeste saw it in my face.
“You chose me,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
That answer shocked her.
“I did.”
I stood too.
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life living with what that choice cost.”
Celeste stared at me.
“But you will not use my guilt as permission for what you did afterward.”
Rebecca pushed a document toward her.
“This confirms termination and preservation requirements concerning company equipment and accounts.”
Celeste did not touch it.
Instead, she smiled.
“You should ask Claire what she was doing the night your children were born.”
I frowned.
“What?”
Celeste’s smile widened.
“Actually, better idea.”
She picked up her purse.
“Ask yourself what you were doing.”
She left.
I understood twenty minutes later.
Marcus found the date of birth in the pediatric records.
January 14.
2:18 a.m.
Noah James Moretti.
2:21 a.m.
Eleanor Rose Moretti.
I knew exactly where I had been.
The photograph still existed online.
A charity winter gala.
Celeste in a red dress.
Me beside her.
At 11:47 p.m., photographers had captured us leaving together.
At 1:36 a.m., another photograph had been taken outside the restaurant in our hotel.
I stared at the timestamp.
Forty-two minutes later, my son was born.
Forty-five minutes later, my daughter followed.
My wife had been giving birth to my children while I was spending the night with the woman who had prevented me from knowing they existed.
My phone rang.
Claire.
I answered immediately.
She didn’t say hello.
“Celeste sent me something.”
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
“A photograph.”
I already knew.
Claire’s voice was very calm.
Too calm.
“She wanted me to know where you were.”
“Claire—”
“January fourteenth.”
“Yes.”
“Was it her?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
I heard one of the babies babbling in the background.
Claire took a shaky breath.
“You were with her.”
“I didn’t know you were in labor.”
“I know.”
That was somehow worse.
“I know you didn’t know.”
“Claire—”
“But I did.”
Her voice broke.
“I knew exactly where you were.”
I stopped breathing.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the photograph from the gala while I was in the hospital.”
The room disappeared around me.
“You saw it?”
“One of the nurses took my phone away afterward because I couldn’t stop crying.”
I sat down.
Claire whispered, “I was seven centimeters dilated, your son’s heart rate kept dropping, and I was looking at a picture of my husband smiling beside the woman who told me he didn’t want his babies.”
My eyes burned.
“Claire…”
“I need some time.”
“I understand.”
“No visits tomorrow.”
My chest tightened.
“All right.”
“No calls.”
“All right.”
“And Vincent?”
“Yes?”
“I believe you didn’t know.”
I almost felt relief.
Then she finished.
“But that doesn’t make the memory hurt less.”
The call ended.
I sat alone for a long time.
Then I looked at the gala photograph again.
Celeste was smiling at the camera.
So was I.
May you like
For years, people had told me photographs captured success.
That one captured the moment I became the kind of man I never wanted my children to know.
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