Chapter 2 - The Divorce He Signed Without Reading
Vincent followed me out of the chapel.
I heard him behind me as I crossed the stone path toward the main house.
“Elena.”
I kept walking.
My legs were weak from seven days on the chapel floor.
The cold air cut through my dress.
“Elena, stop.”
I did not.
Vincent Moretti was a man accustomed to obedience.
Truckers stopped shipments when he called.
Judges delayed hearings.
Casino managers opened private floors.
Men twice his age stood when he entered restaurants.
His wife continuing to walk after he ordered her to stop was apparently a new experience.
He came around me and blocked the path.
“Where are Noah’s ashes?”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll walk around you.”
He caught my shoulders.
I nearly collapsed.
Vincent’s expression changed instantly.
“Elena.”
He steadied me.
For a second his hands became gentle.
Old muscle memory.
I hated it.
I stepped away.
His eyes dropped to my knees.
The dress had shifted enough to reveal the bruising.
“What happened?”
I looked at him.
He genuinely did not know.
Something ugly rose inside me.
“Ask your mother.”
His head turned toward the chapel.
Evelyn had followed us outside.
“Mom?”
She stopped.
Vincent looked again at my knees.
Then at the blood.
“What happened to her?”
Evelyn’s jaw tightened.
“She observed mourning tradition.”
“What tradition?”
“Vincent—”
“What tradition?”
His voice echoed off the stone.
One of the guards looked away.
Evelyn said quietly, “Penance.”
Vincent became still.
“For what?”
No one answered.
His eyes moved between us.
Then understanding struck.
“You punished her.”
Evelyn lifted her chin.
“The family believed—”
“What family?”
“Vincent.”
“Who?”
His voice dropped.
That was worse than shouting.
Evelyn knew it.
“The council.”
“You let them punish my wife because our son died?”
“She was responsible for him.”
Vincent’s face changed.
So did mine.
That had been his sentence too.
Only hours earlier.
You were responsible for our son.
Perhaps hearing his mother say it made the cruelty clearer.
He looked at me.
I gave him nothing.
“Seven days?” he asked.
Evelyn did not answer.
“Seven?”
“Yes.”
Vincent turned away.
His hand went to his mouth.
Then he faced the guards.
“Get Dr. Rosenthal.”
“I don’t need—”
“Now.”
One guard moved.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
The young man stopped because no one in the Moretti household knew whose orders superseded whose anymore.
Vincent looked at me.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
“You need a doctor.”
“I have one.”
His gaze sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
He stared.
Then Sofia appeared at the house entrance.
Her scratched hand was wrapped in white gauze.
The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.
Vincent saw her.
His expression changed.
Not softened exactly.
But shifted.
The movement was small.
I still noticed.
Eight years had trained me well.
Sofia came closer.
“What’s happening?”
Vincent looked at my knees again.
“My mother had Elena kneeling in the chapel for seven days.”
Sofia’s eyes widened.
“Oh.”
Not horror.
Not shock.
Just discomfort.
“I thought it was three.”
I looked at her.
Vincent did too.
“You knew?”
Sofia immediately realized her mistake.
“I heard something from the staff.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
“In Iceland.”
The world stopped.
Vincent stared at her.
“You knew Elena was being punished while we were in Iceland?”
“No, not exactly.”
“You just said—”
“I knew your mother was upset with her.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You had turned your phone off.”
“You had my phone.”
Sofia went silent.
Vincent’s expression changed.
Before leaving New York, he had given Sofia his private phone after she complained he kept checking messages.
I remembered him mentioning it casually during their last dinner at home.
One week without business, Elena. Sofia needs this.
Now he stepped toward her.
“You had my phone.”
She crossed her arms.
“I put it in the hotel safe.”
“Did you turn it on?”
“No.”
“Did you see missed calls?”
“Vincent.”
“Did you?”
She exhaled.
“I checked it once.”
My heartbeat changed.
Vincent went completely still.
“When?”
“The second night.”
Noah had died on the third.
I looked away.
I could not breathe.
Vincent asked, “What did you see?”
“Messages.”
“From who?”
Sofia’s face hardened defensively.
“Elena. Your mother. Staff.”
“And?”
“Nothing said Noah was dying.”
Because at that point he had not been.
But the first emergency had already happened.
Noah had disappeared from the estate for forty minutes that afternoon.
He was found near the south road after attempting to reach the private airstrip.
That had been the beginning.
Vincent looked toward me.
“What messages?”
I said nothing.
Sofia spoke instead.
“Elena was panicking because Noah got out.”
Vincent turned back.
“You knew my son was missing?”
“He had already been found.”
“You knew.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you said nothing.”
“You were finally relaxing.”
The silence afterward was so complete that I heard the fountain running forty feet away.
Vincent looked as though someone had struck him.
Sofia continued quickly.
“There was no reason to ruin the trip. Noah was home. Elena overreacts whenever he gets a bruise.”
I stared at her.
She met my eyes.
For the first time, uncertainty appeared.
Vincent asked, “Why was he trying to reach the airstrip?”
Sofia’s gaze dropped.
I answered.
“Because he thought you were coming home.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Why?”
“Someone told him.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t know.”
At the time.
Sofia turned away.
Too quickly.
Vincent saw it.
“Sofia.”
She stiffened.
“What?”
He stepped closer.
“Did you talk to Noah?”
Silence.
My skin turned cold.
“Sofia?”
“I video-called the house.”
“When?”
“The morning after we arrived.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes.”
I felt the ground shifting beneath me.
I had not known this.
Noah never told me.
Vincent asked, “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Sofia.”
“He was whining.”
My hands curled.
“He missed you,” she added.
“He asked when you were coming home. I told him maybe you’d come back early if he surprised you.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
Sofia looked irritated.
“I don’t remember exactly.”
I stepped toward her.
“Yes, you do.”
“Elena.”
“What did you tell my son?”
She looked at me.
Something in my face made her step backward.
“I said your father always comes through the private airfield. If you want to wait for him, wait there.”
My body went numb.
Vincent’s expression emptied.
“You told a six-year-old child to go to the airfield?”
“I didn’t mean alone.”
“Did you tell an adult?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Elena?”
“No.”
“Did you tell security?”
“No.”
Vincent’s voice became terrifyingly quiet.
“Then who exactly did you expect a six-year-old boy to take with him?”
Sofia’s eyes filled.
“It was a joke.”
No.
I shook my head.
Noah had believed her.
He had packed a small backpack.
Inside were two juice boxes, crackers, a drawing for Vincent, and his stuffed lion.
Security cameras later showed him slipping through a service corridor while staff changed shifts.
He had reached the south road before a groundskeeper found him.
I had been vomiting from a migraine in our bathroom when he left.
By the time I realized he was missing, the estate was already searching.
Everyone blamed me.
I blamed myself.
Now I understood why he had gone.
Vincent looked at Sofia as though he had never seen her before.
“You told him.”
“It was not my fault he took it seriously.”
The sentence hit me physically.
I crossed the distance between us.
My palm struck her face.
Hard.
Sofia stumbled.
A guard stepped forward instinctively.
Vincent lifted one hand.
The guard stopped.
Sofia stared at me.
“You hit me.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes went to Vincent.
Waiting.
For protection.
He did not move.
I almost admired the shock on her face.
“What happened after they found him?” Vincent asked me.
I wanted to walk away.
Instead, I answered.
“He kept asking if you were coming.”
My throat closed.
“I told him no.”
“What happened that night?”
“He couldn’t sleep.”
Noah had climbed into my bed.
At two in the morning, he woke crying.
He said his chest hurt.
At first I thought panic.
Then he vomited.
Then he collapsed.
The hospital found internal bleeding from injuries sustained earlier.
He had fallen down the stone embankment beside the south road.
The groundskeeper had found him standing.
No one realized how badly he was hurt.
He died twelve hours later from complications of a ruptured spleen and delayed internal bleeding.
The doctors said children sometimes compensated until they did not.
By the time his blood pressure crashed, they could not save him.
Vincent’s face collapsed.
“He was injured when they found him?”
“No bruises except his shoulder.”
“Why wasn’t he examined?”
“I asked.”
I looked toward Evelyn.
Her face had gone pale.
Vincent followed my gaze.
“What?”
Evelyn spoke carefully.
“The family physician examined him.”
“No,” I said.
“He looked at Noah in the library for five minutes and said he was frightened.”
Vincent stared at his mother.
“You didn’t take him to a hospital?”
“I suggested it,” I said.
“Your mother said the press would find out Noah had left the estate.”
Evelyn’s eyes flashed.
“He appeared fine.”
“He told me his stomach hurt.”
“Children complain.”
“He died.”
Vincent turned on her.
“You kept him home to avoid press?”
“That is not fair.”
“No?”
His voice rose.
Sofia stepped between them.
“Vincent, stop.”
He turned.
“Do not tell me to stop.”
She froze.
Vincent looked at both women who had defined most of his life.
One had told his son to go wait at an airfield.
The other had delayed medical care because the Moretti name mattered more than embarrassment.
Then his eyes moved to me.
I saw the moment he understood.
I had not failed Noah.
They had.
And Vincent had left me alone with them.
He stepped toward me.
“Elena.”
I backed away.
“No.”
“I didn’t know.”
“That is the problem.”
He stopped.
“You never know what happens here when Sofia needs you somewhere else.”
His face tightened.
“I came home as soon as—”
“As soon as Noah was already dead.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
Pain throbbed behind my eye.
Vincent noticed.
“You’re sick.”
“Grief makes people sick.”
“That isn’t grief.”
He reached toward me.
I stepped back.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
I almost smiled.
“You signed the divorce.”
“I signed a document my mother put in front of me.”
“Still your signature.”
“I’ll contest it.”
“You can try.”
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere you aren’t.”
“Elena.”
“I mean it.”
He looked at me.
“Take anything you want.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Money.”
“No.”
“The house in Connecticut.”
“No.”
“The apartment in Manhattan.”
“No.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
I laughed.
“Noah.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
When he opened them, there was no answer.
Exactly.
I walked inside.
That night, I packed one suitcase.
Most of my clothing stayed.
The jewelry stayed.
The cars.
The house.
The bank accounts Vincent had opened in my name.
All of it.
I packed jeans.
Sweaters.
Medicine.
A photograph of Noah laughing with ice cream across his face.
The stuffed lion he had left beside his bed.
And the wooden box containing his ashes.
At midnight, someone knocked.
I expected Vincent.
It was Finn Callahan.
Vincent’s head of security had worked for him since before our marriage.
He entered without removing his coat.
“Mrs. Moretti.”
“Not for much longer.”
His face tightened.
“I heard.”
I continued folding a sweater.
Finn looked toward the wooden box.
His eyes changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
He stood silently.
Then said, “I need to tell you something.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The day Noah left the property, the south service gate should have been locked.”
I stared.
“It wasn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“That is what I’m trying to determine.”
My pulse changed.
Finn reached inside his coat.
He handed me a printed security log.
A manual override had opened the gate at 11:42 a.m.
The exact time Noah reached it.
“Who opened it?”
“The authorization code belonged to Sofia.”
I looked up.
Finn continued.
“She was in Iceland.”
“So someone used her code.”
“Or she remotely authorized it.”
My fingers went cold.
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Finn looked toward the hallway.
“But there’s more.”
He lowered his voice.
“The security footage from that camera was deleted before Noah died.”
I stopped breathing.
“By who?”
“Someone with executive access.”
“Vincent?”
“No.”
“Evelyn?”
“Possibly.”
“Sofia?”
He said nothing.
I looked at the wooden box.
A terrible thought formed.
“What if Noah didn’t just leave?”
Finn’s expression told me he had already considered it.
“I’m reviewing everything.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because you’re leaving.”
“And?”
“If someone wanted the Moretti heir outside the estate, I don’t think losing him was an accident.”
Cold moved through me.
“You think someone tried to kidnap my son.”
“I think somebody opened a gate for him.”
The distinction was worse.
My head suddenly exploded with pain.
I grabbed the dresser.
“Elena?”
The room tilted.
Finn caught me before I fell.
My vision went black at the edges.
“Call a doctor.”
“No.”
“You just collapsed.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I tried to stand.
My knees failed.
Finn shouted toward the door.
Men entered.
And twenty minutes later, despite everything I wanted, Vincent Moretti learned there was another secret his wife had kept from him.
May you like
This one came with an MRI scan.
And a doctor quietly telling him that his divorced wife might have less than a month to live.
