Chapter 5 - The Baby They Tried to Use Against MeBy the time I was eleven weeks pregnant, my husband had stopped begging me to come home.
Instead, he sent one message every Sunday.
I hope you and the baby are healthy. You don't have to answer.
That was all.
No emotional speeches.
No promises that everything would be different.
No photographs of roses or expensive jewelry.
Strangely, his silence hurt more than I expected.
For two years, I'd wanted Vincent to understand that loving me meant respecting my boundaries.
Now he was finally respecting them.
And I didn't know what to do with the grief that remained.
Madison had become familiar.
I knew which bakery made the best cinnamon rolls.
I knew the cashier at the corner grocery store.
I knew the elderly woman next door, Mrs. Whitaker, watered her flowers every morning regardless of the weather.
I had even started working again.
Leah introduced me to the owner of a small architectural preservation firm, and within a week, I was reviewing plans for the restoration of a nineteenth-century library.
The work was modest.
The salary was nothing compared to what Vincent could have given me.
But every dollar I earned belonged to me.
There was something beautiful about that.
On Thursday morning, I was selecting paint samples when my phone rang.
My mother.
"Claire, honey, turn on the television."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Just turn it on."
I opened a news website instead.
The headline made my blood run cold.
CHICAGO CRIME DYNASTY IN TURMOIL: MORETTI HEIR'S ESTRANGED WIFE EXPECTING FIRST CHILD
Beneath it was a photograph of me.
Not a recent photograph.
One taken at a charity gala nearly a year earlier.
I wore a green evening gown and stood beside Vincent, smiling at the camera.
The article discussed our separation, the pregnancy, and the possibility of a dispute over the Moretti family fortune.
It also mentioned Sophia.
Sources close to the family describe an unusually close relationship between Vincent Moretti and the young son of former socialite Sophia Reynolds.
My hands started shaking.
I scrolled.
Then I saw a sentence that made me physically sick.
Insiders suggest the estranged wife may be using her pregnancy to strengthen her claim to the family's substantial assets.
Using my pregnancy.
As though my baby were a financial instrument.
As though I had spent two years begging my husband to start a family so I could someday win a lawsuit.
I closed the page.
Then I called Simone.
"Who told them?"
"We're investigating."
"My medical information is private."
"I know. We can pursue the source, but we need evidence."
"Vincent wouldn't—"
I stopped.
Simone waited.
I didn't know whether Vincent would.
That was the worst part.
Four years earlier, I would have trusted him with my life.
Now I couldn't even be certain he hadn't told someone about our baby.
"There's more," Simone said.
I sat down.
"What?"
"An accountant retained by Vincent's legal team contacted me this morning. They've discovered financial records connecting a charitable foundation to several questionable transfers."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because the foundation carries your name."
For a moment, I thought I'd misunderstood.
"My name?"
"The Claire Moretti Heritage Foundation."
I stared at the wall.
"I don't have a foundation."
"I know."
"I've never established one."
"Apparently, the organization was registered eighteen months ago."
I closed my eyes.
When Vincent and I first married, I'd told him I wanted to create a preservation fund someday.
We had discussed restoring neglected historic schools and libraries.
I'd even drafted an outline.
But the project never moved beyond a conversation.
Whenever I asked about starting it, Vincent said his financial advisers were busy.
Then Noah began needing more of his time.
And the idea disappeared.
"Simone," I whispered, "what have they done?"
"We're still gathering documents. But your name appears on several filings."
"Did someone forge my signature?"
"That is one possibility."
I felt trapped.
Even hundreds of miles away, the Moretti family had somehow found a way to put my life inside their business.
"Could I be charged with something?"
"Being named in paperwork doesn't establish criminal responsibility. Our priority is documenting that you neither authorized nor controlled the activity."
I placed my hand over my stomach.
"Please tell me my child isn't going to inherit this nightmare."
Her voice softened.
"Claire, we're going to protect your legal interests. But I need you to send me every document you have regarding that original preservation project."
I agreed.
After we hung up, I went to the bedroom and opened the box containing my old notebooks.
There were sketches.
Grant proposals.
Photographs of abandoned buildings.
A folder marked Heritage Project.
Inside, I found an email exchange with Vincent from eighteen months earlier.
Vincent, I'd love to move forward with the foundation we discussed. Even if we start small, this could make a real difference.
His reply was brief.
Let me handle the financial side. Don't worry about the paperwork.
I read that sentence over and over.
Then I found an attachment.
A draft authorization form.
It had never been completed.
The signature line was blank.
I forwarded everything to Simone.
An hour later, she called back.
"Claire, this is important."
"What?"
"The foundation filings contain a signature matching the authorization form you sent."
I frowned.
"But I didn't sign it."
"Exactly."
My blood turned cold.
Someone had used my unfinished project, my name, and my old paperwork to create something I knew nothing about.
And now millions of dollars had apparently moved through related accounts.
I sat on the floor, dizzy.
I had wanted a family.
Instead, I'd married into a world where even a dream about restoring libraries could be turned into financial cover.
That afternoon, Vincent called.
For the first time in weeks, I answered.
"Did you tell the press about my pregnancy?"
Silence.
Then his voice.
"Claire."
The sound of my name nearly broke me.
I'd forgotten how deeply his voice lived inside my memories.
"Answer me."
"No."
"Can you swear to that?"
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
"Someone did."
"I know. My attorney is tracing the leak."
"Your family has been making decisions about me without my permission for years."
"I know."
"And now there's a foundation using my name."
His breathing changed.
"You've heard."
"Yes."
"Claire, I didn't authorize those filings."
"Neither did I."
"I know."
I stared at the wall.
"Do you?"
"Yes. And I'm going to give your attorney everything we find."
My throat tightened.
"Why would your father do this?"
A long silence followed.
Then Vincent said something I'd never expected.
"Because for years I allowed him to believe that the Moretti name mattered more than anything else."
I waited.
"And he thought you'd eventually disappear from the picture."
I stopped breathing.
"So it's true."
"What?"
"Your family was preparing for Sophia to replace me."
He didn't answer immediately.
And that told me enough.
"Vincent."
"My father discussed it with her. My mother knew pieces of it. I didn't."
I laughed bitterly.
"You didn't need to know. You were already doing everything they wanted."
"I know."
"Do you realize how humiliating this is?"
His voice dropped.
"Yes."
"No, Vincent. You don't."
I stood.
"Your mother placed another woman's son in photographs beside you. Your father created financial arrangements that treated them like your future family. And you let Sophia call you her child's daddy while you told me we couldn't have a baby of our own."
My voice broke.
"I was sleeping beside a man whose entire family was planning my replacement."
"Claire, I never wanted to replace you."
"But you made it easy."
He said nothing.
I wiped my cheeks.
"There's one thing I need from you."
"Anything."
"Don't say anything."
He fell silent.
"I don't want another promise. I don't want another vacation. I don't want flowers or apologies. I want every document bearing my name turned over to Simone. I want the truth about what happened. And I want your family to leave me alone."
"You'll have it."
"Good."
I was about to hang up when he spoke again.
"How's the baby?"
The question caught me off guard.
I closed my eyes.
"Healthy, as far as the doctor can tell."
His breath trembled.
"Good."
A long silence passed.
Then he whispered, "Thank you for telling me."
I ended the call before he could hear me cry.
That evening, Leah came over with groceries.
She found me at the dining table surrounded by financial documents.
"Please tell me you're not planning to become an accountant overnight."
I shook my head.
"Apparently, I've been running a foundation without knowing it."
Leah stared at me.
"That sounds like something out of a crime show."
"Welcome to my marriage."
She sat beside me.
"Claire, you need a break."
"I need to understand how someone used my name."
"And you will. But you also need to eat."
I looked down at my untouched dinner.
"I haven't been hungry."
"You're carrying a baby."
"I know."
She took my hand.
"Then start treating yourself like someone worth protecting."
That made me cry.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was true.
For so long, I'd measured my value by how much inconvenience I could endure without complaining.
I had turned patience into a substitute for self-respect.
And I couldn't keep doing that.
Two days later, the bleeding started.
It happened at 2:14 in the morning.
I woke with a dull ache low in my abdomen.
At first, I thought I needed the bathroom.
Then I saw blood.
I froze.
My heart began hammering.
"No."
I gripped the edge of the sink.
"No, no, no."
For one terrible second, I was back in the hospital where my mother had nearly died.
Except this time, there was no one to call.
I reached for my phone.
Vincent's name appeared at the top of my recent calls.
My thumb hovered over it.
Then I called Leah.
She answered immediately.
"Claire?"
"There's blood."
Her voice changed.
"Where are you?"
"Home."
"I'm coming. Get dressed. We're going to the emergency department."
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting beneath fluorescent lights, trembling while a nurse checked my vital signs.
Leah held my hand.
I tried to breathe.
I tried to remember everything Dr. Foster had said about early pregnancy complications.
But all I could think was that the tiny heartbeat I'd heard weeks earlier might already be gone.
When the physician entered with the ultrasound equipment, I could barely look at him.
"Please," I whispered. "Just tell me if my baby is alive."
He examined the screen.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he pointed.
"There."
A heartbeat.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
I burst into tears.
The physician explained that I had a small subchorionic hematoma, a collection of blood near the pregnancy.
It could cause bleeding.
Many pregnancies continued normally, though follow-up was necessary.
He gave me clear instructions about warning signs and arranged for my obstetrician to reassess me.
I listened carefully.
But all I could think was that my baby was still alive.
Leah hugged me.
"You hear that? Still fighting."
I pressed a hand over my stomach.
"So am I."
At sunrise, I sat in the hospital parking lot, watching the sky brighten.
Then I did something I hadn't expected.
I called Vincent.
He answered before the second ring.
"Claire?"
His voice sounded frightened.
"Is everything all right?"
I stared through the windshield.
"I was in the hospital."
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
"What happened?"
"I had some bleeding."
I heard movement.
A chair scraping.
"Are you okay? Is the baby—"
"The heartbeat is there."
His breath caught.
"Thank God."
"They found a small hematoma. I have to follow up with my doctor."
"Where are you?"
"Vincent."
"Please. I'm not going to force you to see me. I just need to know you're receiving care."
"I'm in Madison."
"I know."
I closed my eyes.
Of course he knew.
"Claire, may I ask one thing?"
"What?"
"Can I come to your next appointment?"
My throat tightened.
"I don't know."
"I understand."
He sounded exhausted.
"I won't show up without permission."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Vincent said something I'd wanted to hear for years.
"I'm sorry I taught you that you had to face frightening things alone."
I started crying.
He didn't ask me to stop.
He didn't tell me I was overreacting.
He simply stayed on the line until I could breathe again.
But just when I thought the worst of that morning was behind me, Simone called.
Her voice was urgent.
"Claire, don't speak to anyone from Moretti Holdings."
I straightened.
"Why?"
"The foundation records have been flagged as part of a financial investigation."
My mouth went dry.
"What does that mean?"
"It means federal authorities may want to speak with you."
I gripped the phone.
Then Simone added the words that turned my fear into fury.
"And there's a document bearing your signature that appears to authorize nearly four hundred thousand dollars in transfers."
I stared at the hospital doors.
My baby had survived a medical scare.
May you like
But somewhere in Chicago, someone had used my identity to move money I had never seen.
And I was beginning to understand that leaving Vincent Moretti wasn't going to be as simple as taking off my wedding ring.
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