Chapter 3 - The Wife They Tried to Erase
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
The woman on the phone waited patiently.
Finally, I asked, “Who told you I signed that document?”
“Mrs. Moretti, I'm afraid I'm not authorized to discuss internal approval procedures.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“Mr. Voss wanted to confirm whether you'd received your copy.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
Madison still wasn't home.
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.
“Please tell Mr. Voss that all communication concerning my financial interests must go through my attorney, Evelyn Park.”
There was another pause.
“Are you disputing the agreement?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Moretti, perhaps you should speak with your husband before making accusations.”
My jaw tightened.
“Perhaps your company should speak with my attorney before using my signature.”
I ended the call.
Then I immediately forwarded the number, the call details, and the photographs to Evelyn.
She called me less than five minutes later.
“Claire, did you tell them anything beyond referring them to me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Evelyn, what is happening?”
“I can't give you a definitive answer yet, but the timing is concerning. We're preparing a formal notice disputing the release and demanding preservation of the original records.”
I sat on the bed.
“Can they sell my shares without me?”
“That's one of the things we're investigating. The agreement appears to include special consent rights. If those rights remain in effect, the purported release could have been used to clear an obstacle to the North River transaction.”
“What transaction?”
“A proposed sale and redevelopment partnership involving several properties along the Chicago River. It's a very large deal.”
“How large?”
“Potentially hundreds of millions of dollars.”
I stared at the wall.
Five years ago, I'd handed Vincent my inheritance because he couldn't pay his employees.
Now people were apparently willing to forge my signature to move hundreds of millions of dollars.
“Why didn't Vincent tell me?”
Evelyn was silent for a moment.
“That's a question he will eventually need to answer.”
After we hung up, I opened the news article again.
The comments were brutal.
She's obviously trying to trap him with a baby.
Rich women always want more.
If he's paying for everything, what does she have to complain about?
One person wrote:
She probably hasn't worked a day in her life.
I stared at that sentence longer than the others.
Because there had been a time when I worked constantly.
Before Vincent's mansion, before his public image became more important than my future, I had been an artist.
Not a famous one.
Not a wealthy one.
But an artist with exhibitions, commissions, and a professor who once told me my work belonged in major galleries.
I'd given it up gradually.
One postponed exhibition.
One missed application deadline.
One abandoned commission.
Then another.
Eventually, I stopped introducing myself as a painter.
I introduced myself as Vincent's wife.
Now strangers were telling me I had never contributed anything.
And the most painful part was realizing how successfully I had allowed my own life to disappear.
I opened my contacts.
There was a number I hadn't called in almost three years.
June Flores.
My former painting professor.
I stared at it for a full minute before pressing call.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Claire Bennett?”
Her voice was warm and unmistakable.
“Professor Flores?”
“Oh, sweetheart. You sound like someone who needs coffee.”
I started crying before I could explain.
June listened without interruption.
When I finally finished, she said, “Come see me tomorrow.”
“I don't know if I can paint anymore.”
“Then don't paint. Come drink coffee and remember who you are.”
The next morning, Madison drove me to a small independent gallery in Pilsen.
It occupied a converted brick warehouse with tall windows, uneven wooden floors, and the familiar smell of turpentine.
The moment I stepped inside, something loosened inside my chest.
Paintings covered the walls.
Some were bright and chaotic.
Others were quiet landscapes.
In one corner, a young man was repairing a damaged wooden frame.
June emerged from the back room, her silver-streaked hair tied into a messy bun.
She stopped when she saw me.
Then she opened her arms.
“Oh, Claire.”
I walked into them.
For a few seconds, I was twenty-one again.
The girl who believed she could make something beautiful out of anything.
June held me at arm's length.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Good. Exhaustion sometimes means you're finally finished carrying something you were never meant to carry.”
I laughed through my tears.
She led me toward a small table near the windows.
The young man looked up from his work.
“June, I fixed the frame.”
“Thank you, Caleb.”
He stood.
He was tall, with warm brown eyes, short dark hair, and sawdust on his sleeve.
“Caleb Turner,” he introduced himself.
“Claire Bennett.”
He smiled.
“Your name sounds familiar.”
June answered before I could.
“Because she's the artist who won the Hartwell Emerging Painter Award six years ago.”
My face grew warm.
“That was a long time ago.”
Caleb glanced toward a landscape hanging nearby.
“Good work doesn't expire.”
It was such a simple remark.
But it had been years since a man spoke to me without asking me to organize something, change something, or apologize for something.
June poured coffee for everyone and asked Caleb to bring a box of old exhibition catalogs from storage.
When he left, she leaned toward me.
“Don't worry. He's not one of those people who will ask you about your husband.”
I smiled weakly.
“Everyone asks about my husband.”
“Then everyone is asking the wrong question.”
She placed a blank sketchbook in front of me.
“What do you want to make, Claire?”
I stared at the white pages.
I didn't know.
For five years, every choice had revolved around Vincent.
His preferences.
His schedule.
His reputation.
Now someone was asking what I wanted.
I picked up a pencil.
My fingers trembled.
Then, slowly, I began drawing.
A woman standing at the threshold of an enormous house.
Behind her, the rooms were dark.
Ahead of her, an open road stretched toward a sunrise.
I didn't notice the tears falling onto the paper until June handed me a tissue.
“That's it,” she whispered.
“What's it?”
“The beginning.”
I spent three hours at the gallery.
For the first time since discovering Vincent with Sophia, I forgot to check my phone.
When Madison came to collect me, I was sitting on the floor surrounded by sketches.
She stopped in the doorway.
Then she smiled.
“There you are.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“My best friend.”
That afternoon, while I was making arrangements for a small apartment, Vincent was dealing with a different kind of disaster.
I learned the details later from documents, messages, and what he eventually told me himself.
Sophia was sitting in his office when he entered.
She wore the bracelet.
Of course she did.
She glanced up with a soft smile.
“Vincent, I was worried about you.”
He didn't smile back.
“Did you leak photographs of Claire at the hospital?”
Sophia blinked.
“What?”
“Answer me.”
She slowly set down her coffee.
“Why would I do that?”
“The photograph came from your side of the corridor.”
“Vincent, there were dozens of people there.”
“And you posted that bracelet after the story appeared.”
Her expression changed.
Only briefly.
Then she laughed.
“Are you seriously interrogating me over a piece of jewelry?”
“Take it off.”
She stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“The bracelet.”
Sophia lowered her gaze to the diamonds.
“But you gave it to me.”
“I know.”
“Was it because Claire made a scene?”
Vincent stepped toward his desk.
“Claire didn't make a scene. I humiliated her.”
According to Vincent, those words surprised him as much as they surprised Sophia.
Because for the first time, he had said aloud what he'd done.
Sophia's eyes filled with tears.
“You're choosing her because she's pregnant.”
“I'm asking you whether you leaked private information.”
“You said your marriage was practically over.”
He looked at her.
“I said we were having problems.”
“You told me you were unhappy.”
“I was.”
“Then why are you suddenly acting like I'm the villain?”
Vincent rubbed his face.
“I need some distance.”
Sophia stood.
“Distance?”
“Yes.”
She approached him.
“Vincent, you can't do this to me.”
He looked down at her.
“Why not?”
Her lips trembled.
“Because I need you.”
He closed his eyes.
That sentence had once been enough to make him stay.
It had worked repeatedly.
But now another sentence was echoing in his mind.
Somewhere you won't be.
He asked Sophia to leave.
She did.
But not before telling him that Claire would eventually take his money, his child, and everything he'd worked for.
He didn't answer.
That evening, Vincent called his mother.
Elena Moretti had never been an especially emotional woman.
She was elegant, direct, and famous within the family for refusing to tolerate excuses.
When Vincent told her Claire had left, Elena asked only one question.
“What did you do?”
He tried to explain.
He mentioned work.
Pressure.
The affair.
The pregnancy.
Then the birthday.
Elena listened.
When he finished, she said, “You gave another woman a diamond bracelet on your wife's birthday?”
Vincent was silent.
“And you sent Claire a cake she is allergic to?”
“I didn't realize—”
“You didn't realize?”
Her voice rose.
“Vincent, I was at the hospital five years ago when Claire nearly died from that allergy.”
“I know.”
“No, apparently you don't.”
He tried to interrupt.
Elena continued.
“I remember when you couldn't afford a winter coat. Claire bought you one with money she earned painting portraits. I remember when your company was failing, and she put her father's inheritance into it.”
“Mom—”
“And now she's pregnant, and you want to know why she didn't tell you?”
Vincent said nothing.
Elena's voice grew quieter.
“You taught that woman she couldn't rely on you. Don't act surprised when she finally believes the lesson.”
She hung up.
The following day, Elena came to Madison's apartment.
She brought homemade chicken soup, fresh fruit, and a small knitted blanket in pale yellow.
When Madison opened the door, Elena stood awkwardly in the hallway.
“I know I'm the last person Claire probably wants to see.”
I heard her voice and came out of the bedroom.
“Elena.”
Her expression softened.
“May I come in?”
I nodded.
She placed the food on the kitchen counter.
Then she looked at me.
“I'm sorry.”
I swallowed.
“You didn't do anything.”
“I raised a son who should have known better.”
“That doesn't make you responsible.”
She touched my cheek.
“You look like you've lost weight.”
“Morning sickness.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Is the baby all right?”
I nodded.
“Yes. The doctor says everything looks good.”
Elena exhaled.
“Thank God.”
We sat together for almost an hour.
She never asked me to forgive Vincent.
She never suggested I return home.
Instead, she asked about my health, my plans, and whether I needed anything.
Before leaving, she took my hand.
“Claire, whatever happens between you and my son, you'll always be family to me.”
I began crying.
She hugged me tightly.
Then she said something unexpected.
“Be careful about the people around his company.”
I pulled back.
“What do you mean?”
Elena hesitated.
“I don't know everything. But I know Vincent's chief financial officer has been pushing a major transaction, and I know Sophia has become far more involved in company decisions than her position should allow.”
“Marcus Voss?”
Elena nodded.
“I never trusted him.”
“Why?”
“He keeps insisting that anything connected to the company's founding must be cleaned up before the sale.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Cleaned up how?”
“I don't know.”
Elena looked troubled.
“But when someone wants to erase the beginning of a story, it's usually because they don't want anyone remembering who helped write it.”
After she left, I called Evelyn.
I told her everything.
She was quiet for several moments.
Then she said, “Our notice has been delivered to the company's legal department and its board. They've acknowledged receipt.”
“What happens now?”
“We're asking that no transaction dependent on your alleged consent proceed until the validity of the documents is resolved.”
“Will they listen?”
“They'd be taking an enormous risk if they ignored the dispute.”
That night, Miriam called me.
I almost didn't answer because the mansion reminded me of everything I wanted to forget.
But when I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong.
“Mrs. Moretti, I hope I'm not disturbing you.”
“Of course not.”
“I found something while cleaning the kitchen office.”
“What?”
“The receipt for your birthday cake.”
I went still.
“Miriam?”
“I thought you should know. The bakery called on the evening of your birthday because they wanted to verify the delivery instructions.”
“Why?”
Miriam hesitated.
“Because whoever ordered it specifically requested the chestnut filling.”
I swallowed.
“Vincent?”
“No, ma'am.”
I closed my eyes.
“The order came through the corporate gift account. The contact name was Sophia Reynolds.”
For a moment, I couldn't hear anything except my own heartbeat.
Then Miriam continued.
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“The bakery says the person placing the order rejected a substitution.”
“Why would they need a substitution?”
“Because someone had told them that you couldn't eat chestnuts.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
Miriam's voice shook.
“Mrs. Moretti, they knew about your allergy.”
I stared at the ultrasound photograph lying beside my sketchbook.
Sophia hadn't merely forgotten something important to me.
May you like
She had apparently known exactly what could hurt me.
And she had sent it to my home anyway.
