Chapter 2 - The Child Who Called My Husband Daddy
Natalie Brooks answered on the fourth ring.
"Claire? It's nine-thirty on a Sunday morning. Please tell me you aren't calling because Vincent bought another ridiculous painting."
Ordinarily, I would have laughed.
Natalie and I had been friends since college.
She'd spent the last decade building a successful practice in Chicago, handling complex family disputes, business litigation, and the occasional case that made the evening news.
She knew the Morettis.
More importantly, she knew me before I became one.
"Natalie, I need a lawyer."
The silence on the other end was immediate.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Is Vincent?"
"No."
"Then tell me what's happening."
I told her.
The shopping trip.
Sophia.
The argument at the estate.
The child.
The photograph.
And finally, the foundation payment carrying my signature.
Natalie didn't interrupt until I finished.
"Claire," she said carefully, "we need to separate two problems."
"My husband's possible affair and the missing money?"
"Your marriage and a potentially fraudulent financial transaction. They're connected only if the evidence says they are."
I looked at the email again.
"I didn't authorize that transfer."
"Then don't discuss it with Julian. Don't confront Vincent with the financial details yet. Preserve the original email and any records you are lawfully entitled to access. We'll arrange an independent review."
"Am I in trouble?"
"If someone forged your authorization, you may be a victim. But we need facts, not guesses."
I swallowed.
"Someone sent me a photograph from a hotel."
"Keep the original message."
"Do you think he's cheating?"
Natalie sighed.
"Claire, I'm your attorney and your friend. I can help you find the truth. I can't decide what the truth means before we have it."
I stared out the window.
A woman was walking a golden retriever along the sidewalk.
Two children raced past her on scooters.
The world outside looked offensively normal.
"Can you come over?"
"I'll be there in forty minutes."
Natalie arrived with two coffees and a legal pad.
Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun. She wore jeans, a navy sweater, and the expression she reserved for cases she expected to become unpleasant.
She set the coffees down.
"First, do you want a separation?"
"I don't know."
"That's an acceptable answer."
"I love him."
"That's also an acceptable answer."
I looked at her.
"What isn't acceptable?"
She leaned forward.
"Letting someone else decide what you're allowed to know."
I nearly started crying again.
Instead, I opened my laptop.
For the next hour, we reviewed records I could legitimately access as a member of the foundation's executive committee.
The Moretti Children's Initiative had been established twelve years earlier.
It funded after-school programs, pediatric clinics, community libraries, and emergency housing for families with children.
I had joined its board before Vincent and I married.
That distinction mattered.
My involvement wasn't a gift from my husband.
I had spent years working in nonprofit administration before becoming a Moretti, and I'd earned my position.
Richard had once told me that I was the only person at a board meeting who was willing to ask where the money actually went.
I'd considered it a compliment.
Now I wondered whether it had made me a target.
The disputed payment had been split into three installments.
Each was marked as a special emergency housing grant.
The beneficiary was an organization called Harbor House Outreach.
I searched our approved grant list.
Nothing.
No board presentation.
No application.
No program evaluation.
And no record of me approving a multimillion-dollar emergency housing initiative.
Natalie studied the files.
"Was there a special authorization policy?"
"For genuine emergencies. But anything over two hundred fifty thousand dollars still requires approval from two designated officers and supporting documentation."
"And Julian was one."
"Yes."
"You were the other?"
"According to this paperwork."
I rubbed my forehead.
"I was in New York when the last transfer was approved."
"Where were you that morning?"
"At a donor breakfast at the Waldorf Astoria."
"Witnesses?"
"At least twenty."
She made a note.
"Good."
I looked up.
"Why good?"
"Because we're going to establish exactly what happened and when."
At eleven-fifteen, my phone rang.
Vincent.
Natalie glanced at the screen.
"Answer it if you want. Don't discuss the transaction yet."
I put the call on speaker.
"Hello?"
"Claire."
His voice sounded rough.
I imagined him sitting in his office, sleeves rolled up, a glass of espresso cooling beside his laptop.
I knew every version of that voice.
The gentle one he used when waking me.
The hard one he used when business went wrong.
The amused one he used when I insisted he couldn't cook.
This one was unfamiliar.
"Are you home?"
"Yes."
"Did Marcus stay?"
"He's outside."
"Good."
A pause.
"Claire, I need you to hear me out."
"I'm listening."
"Sophia has been dealing with a dangerous situation involving her ex-husband. I was trying to resolve it quietly."
"Why quietly?"
"Because certain people are looking for an opportunity to hurt our family."
"Which people?"
He hesitated.
"Daniel Reynolds is connected to some men we used to do business with."
"Then call the police."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is with you."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't call me that right now."
His breathing changed.
"Fine."
I stared at the wedding ring on my hand.
"Did you stay at the Whitmore Hotel with Sophia?"
Silence.
Natalie's pen stopped moving.
"How do you know about the Whitmore?"
"Answer me."
"I booked rooms there."
"Rooms?"
"Two."
"Did you go into hers?"
"Yes."
My throat tightened.
"At one-forty-three in the morning?"
Another silence.
"Claire, who is sending you photographs?"
The question cut through me.
Not Are you okay?
Not I know how that looks.
Not I'm sorry.
He wanted to know who had caught him.
"That wasn't the question, Vincent."
"I went there because she said Daniel had appeared outside her room and threatened to take her son."
"Was he there?"
"I didn't see him."
"Then how long did you stay?"
"About an hour."
"And you thought your wife didn't deserve to know?"
"I was trying not to worry you."
I closed my eyes.
"You've been very successful."
"Claire, listen. Sophia means nothing to me romantically."
"Then why did she touch you like that?"
"Because she's scared."
"And you're the only man who can make her feel safe?"
He didn't answer.
I felt the last of my patience fracture.
"Tell me one thing. Are you planning to bring her into our home?"
"No."
"Your parents' home?"
"I'm trying to find somewhere secure for her and Leo."
Leo.
He said the name naturally.
As though he had already become part of the child's life.
"Have you met him?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
"Three."
"Does he know who you are?"
A pause.
"Sophia told him I was an old friend."
I swallowed.
"An old friend."
"Claire—"
"Vincent, I have to go."
"Wait. I need to see you."
"I'm not ready."
"Then tell me when you will be."
I looked at Natalie.
She said nothing.
I took a breath.
"When you can have a conversation without deciding which parts of the truth I can handle."
I ended the call.
For a moment, neither Natalie nor I spoke.
Then she placed her hand over mine.
"That was difficult."
I gave a bitter laugh.
"I've negotiated hospital leases with people who made me feel less foolish."
"You're not foolish."
"Then why did I believe him?"
"Because you were married to him."
That answer hurt.
Because it was so simple.
Trust wasn't stupidity.
But it could make a person vulnerable to someone who knew exactly where the doors were.
By early afternoon, Natalie had contacted a digital forensics specialist.
She also recommended that I preserve the foundation records in their original form and let an independent investigator handle any further access.
We were discussing temporary living arrangements when Eleanor called.
Her voice was unusually sharp.
"Claire, are you alone?"
"Natalie's here."
"Good. I need you both at the estate."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Because my son has made a decision without consulting anyone."
"What decision?"
Eleanor was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "Sophia Reynolds is here."
I closed my eyes.
"At the estate?"
"At the south guest cottage. Vincent arranged for her to come through the service entrance."
"Mom—"
"I told him she wasn't staying in my house. Apparently, he decided the cottage did not count."
Natalie was already gathering her papers.
"Don't do anything until we arrive," I said.
Eleanor gave a humorless laugh.
"Sweetheart, I'm sixty-two years old. If I intended to throw someone out a window, I'd have done it by now."
Despite everything, I smiled.
For about half a second.
Then she continued.
"There's something else."
"What?"
"She brought the child."
I looked toward the front door.
"Of course she did."
"Claire, I think you need to see him."
"Why?"
Her voice softened.
"Because he's six years old. And whatever his mother has done, he deserves to be treated like a little boy, not a piece of evidence."
I drove to the estate with Natalie while Marcus followed in another vehicle.
The Moretti property sat beyond tall iron gates outside the city.
Even after five years of marriage, the grounds sometimes looked unreal to me.
Perfectly trimmed hedges.
Stone fountains.
Acres of rolling lawn.
A century-old mansion built to impress men who measured success in land, marble, and silence.
Today, it looked like a battlefield.
Two unfamiliar SUVs were parked near the guest cottage.
Richard stood on the front terrace speaking urgently into his phone.
Eleanor waited at the entrance.
She kissed my cheek.
Then she greeted Natalie.
"Thank you for coming."
Natalie glanced toward the vehicles.
"Does Sophia have legal representation?"
"I haven't asked."
"Then we should be careful about what gets said."
Eleanor nodded.
"Agreed."
We entered the drawing room.
Vincent was standing near the fireplace.
His face changed when he saw me.
For one heartbeat, I saw relief.
Then he noticed Natalie.
"Claire, what's going on?"
Natalie extended her hand.
"Natalie Brooks. I'm advising Claire."
Vincent stared at her.
"I know who you are."
"Then we'll skip the introductions."
Eleanor turned away to hide what looked suspiciously like a smile.
Vincent approached me.
"Claire, you didn't need to bring an attorney."
"I didn't need to find out about your ex-girlfriend in the middle of a shopping mall either."
He stopped.
Before he could respond, a woman's voice came from the doorway.
"Vincent?"
Sophia Reynolds entered carrying an expensive leather handbag.
She wore a pale blue cashmere sweater and perfectly tailored trousers.
Her blond hair fell in glossy waves around her shoulders.
She looked as immaculate as she had at the mall.
Beside her stood a little boy.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
A navy jacket zipped to his chin.
He held a stuffed dinosaur in one hand and looked as though he wanted to disappear behind his mother's leg.
I couldn't stop staring.
There was something painfully familiar about his face.
Not enough to prove anything.
But enough to make my heart ache.
Sophia glanced at me.
"Oh. Claire."
She said my name as though we had accidentally run into each other at a grocery store.
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way."
I looked directly at her.
"Find out what?"
Her eyes shifted toward Vincent.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Sophia ignored him.
"About Leo."
The little boy looked up.
"Mommy?"
She rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Go sit on the couch, sweetheart."
He hesitated.
Then walked toward the sofa.
Eleanor immediately knelt beside him.
"Hello, Leo. I'm Eleanor."
He looked at her suspiciously.
"Do you have cookies?"
For the first time all day, the room softened.
Eleanor smiled.
"I believe I can find some."
"Chocolate chip?"
"Those happen to be my specialty."
"Mine too."
She took his small hand and led him toward the breakfast room.
I watched them leave.
Whatever else was happening, that child wasn't responsible.
I held on to that thought.
Sophia waited until he was out of earshot.
Then she faced me.
"I know this must be difficult."
I folded my arms.
"You have no idea."
"I never meant to come between you and Vincent."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because my son deserves to know his father."
Silence settled over the room.
Vincent stepped forward.
"Sophia, that's enough."
She turned toward him.
"You can't keep pretending this isn't happening."
"We agreed to wait."
"I've waited six years."
Richard entered at that moment.
His face darkened when he saw the three of us.
"What's going on now?"
Sophia lifted her chin.
"I'm tired of being treated like a dirty secret."
I looked at Vincent.
"Is this what you were trying to tell me?"
He closed his eyes.
"Claire—"
Sophia reached into her handbag.
She removed a cream-colored envelope.
Then she held it out to me.
"I brought proof."
Vincent moved toward her.
"Don't."
But she'd already placed the envelope on the table.
I stared at it.
My hands began shaking again.
Natalie touched my arm.
"You don't have to open it right now."
I shook my head.
"No. I want to."
Inside were two documents.
The first was a copy of Leo's birth certificate.
The father listed was Daniel Reynolds.
The second was a laboratory report.
I read it once.
Then again.
My vision blurred.
At the bottom, beside Vincent Moretti's name, was a number.
99.99%.
Probability of paternity.
I looked up.
"Vincent?"
He seemed as if someone had struck him.
"That test wasn't done through a court."
Sophia gave a sharp laugh.
"But you arranged it."
"I agreed to have samples examined. I didn't personally collect them."
"Yet you received the results."
His eyes moved toward me.
"Claire, I was trying to confirm whether it was accurate."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Do you believe he's yours?"
Vincent hesitated.
That hesitation was worse than any answer.
Sophia whispered, "He knows."
Richard turned toward his son.
"Vincent."
But I barely heard him.
I looked down at the little boy's name.
Leo Reynolds.
Six years old.
Six years of birthdays.
First steps.
First words.
A thousand mornings I knew nothing about.
Then I thought of my husband holding another woman's arm while I shopped with his mother.
Of his hidden meetings.
Of the flowers he brought me after my trip to New York.
Of the photograph outside Suite 1408.
And I realized something.
The question wasn't only whether Leo belonged to Vincent.
It was whether my marriage still belonged to me.
I carefully placed the documents back on the table.
"Sophia, I have one question."
She lifted her chin.
"Go ahead."
"If you believed Vincent was Leo's father, why did you wait six years to tell him?"
Something flashed across her face.
Not sadness.
Not guilt.
Fear.
"Because I was married," she said.
"You divorced two years ago."
She blinked.
I continued.
"So why did you wait another two years?"
Sophia looked toward Vincent.
Then Richard.
Then the doorway where Eleanor had disappeared with Leo.
"I was trying to protect my son."
"From whom?"
She opened her mouth.
But before she could speak, a man's voice sounded from the hallway.
"That's an excellent question."
Julian Cross stepped into the drawing room.
He wore a dark suit and carried a thin leather briefcase.
Richard frowned.
"Julian? I didn't know you were coming."
Julian smiled.
"Vincent asked me to look into a few matters."
He looked at me.
"Claire. I understand you've had a difficult morning."
I didn't answer.
His gaze moved briefly to the envelope on the table.
Then to Sophia.
And something strange happened.
Sophia stopped speaking.
Instantly.
The woman who'd been bold enough to announce my husband's alleged child in front of his entire family suddenly seemed unable to meet Julian's eyes.
He smiled pleasantly.
"Perhaps this would be a good time for everyone to calm down."
I looked from him to Sophia.
A question formed in my mind.
And for the first time, it had nothing to do with whether my husband had been unfaithful.
Why was the Moretti family's chief financial officer standing in the middle of my marriage?
Julian opened his briefcase.
"Actually, Claire, there's another reason I'm here."
He placed a document on the table.
"The foundation's auditors have identified a serious discrepancy."
My stomach dropped.
He continued.
"Unfortunately, your name appears on the authorization."
Natalie stepped beside me.
"Mr. Cross, I recommend you stop speaking until we establish who represents whom."
Julian smiled.
"Of course."
But he wasn't looking at Natalie.
He was looking at me.
As though he had been waiting for this moment.
And I finally understood why Eleanor had sounded so frightened on the telephone.
May you like
Someone wasn't merely trying to take my husband.
Someone was trying to take everything.
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