Chapter 2 - The Photograph Sophia Never Meant Me to See
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sophia smiling in Vincent's sweater.
I heard her laughing when I said I was allergic.
And I remembered the way Vincent looked at me when I begged him to stop.
But now there was another memory.
Eleanor sitting in the hospital corridor, telling me that Sophia had asked about the Moretti family trust.
Not the hotels.
Not the casinos.
Not Vincent's personal fortune.
The trust.
I had heard about it only a handful of times during our marriage.
Vincent's grandfather had established it decades earlier to preserve control over the family's legitimate businesses.
The trust held substantial interests in shipping terminals, commercial property, and several hotels.
Vincent controlled the operating companies.
His uncle Matteo managed important financial and administrative responsibilities.
But the trust itself had rules that even Vincent couldn't simply ignore.
I remembered asking him about those rules once.
He had kissed my forehead and told me not to worry about boring family paperwork.
At the time, I had thought he was protecting me from complicated business affairs.
Now I wondered whether he had simply preferred that I know nothing.
At seven the next morning, Rebecca called.
"Have you had any contact with Vincent?"
"No."
"Good. Keep it that way for now."
She paused.
"I've spoken with a lawyer who has reviewed the trust documents in the past. There may be a provision related to Vincent's children."
I sat upright.
"What provision?"
"I don't have enough verified information yet. I don't want you making assumptions."
"But Eleanor said Sophia asked about it."
"Yes. And that makes the timing worth investigating."
I stared at the bracelet sitting on June's dresser.
The tiny gold star caught the morning light.
"Rebecca, do you think Sophia knew I was pregnant?"
Silence.
Then she answered carefully.
"I think we need to find out."
While Rebecca investigated, Vincent continued trying to contact me.
By Friday, he had sent flowers to June's house.
White roses.
My favorite.
A handwritten card arrived with them.
Claire, I know I don't deserve another chance. Please let me explain. I love you. Vincent.
I stared at the card for a long time.
Then I carried the flowers outside and placed them beside the trash bins.
June watched from the porch.
"You don't have to throw them away if you're not ready."
"I'm ready."
She nodded.
But when I came back inside, I sat at the kitchen table and cried again.
Because I remembered the first time Vincent had brought me white roses.
We had been dating for four months.
He had arrived outside my apartment carrying twenty-four flowers and a paper bag from a little Italian restaurant.
He told me he had canceled an important business dinner because I sounded tired on the phone.
He cooked pasta in my tiny kitchen.
He washed the dishes.
Then he sat on the floor beside me and asked whether I'd ever considered marrying a man like him.
I had laughed.
"A man like you?"
"Difficult. Demanding. Too much trouble."
"Are you warning me?"
"Maybe."
I had touched his cheek and told him everybody deserved someone willing to understand them.
I still remembered the way he looked at me.
As though no one had ever offered him kindness without wanting something in return.
That memory hurt more than the flowers.
Because somewhere along the way, the man who once canceled a meeting to take care of me had become the man who rented out an entire bakery for his mistress.
And I had spent too long hoping the first man would come back.
On Saturday afternoon, a woman named Elena Torres called Rebecca's office.
She managed Laurel & Rye, the upscale Chicago bakery Vincent had rented for Sophia.
According to Elena, she had seen an online photograph of Vincent and Sophia leaving the bakery together.
Then she'd learned that Vincent's wife had been hospitalized.
She wanted to speak to us.
Rebecca arranged the meeting at her downtown office.
I almost refused.
The idea of hearing about that bakery made my stomach churn.
But curiosity overcame fear.
Elena arrived carrying a canvas tote bag and looking as though she hadn't slept.
She was in her late thirties, with dark hair pulled into a tight braid.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she said.
Rebecca gestured toward a chair.
"You're not bothering us. Please tell us why you called."
Elena placed her hands together.
"I've been managing restaurants and bakeries for fifteen years. I've dealt with difficult customers. But I've never dealt with someone like that woman."
My chest tightened.
"Sophia?"
Elena nodded.
"Mr. Moretti booked the entire place. Paid an enormous fee. He requested strawberry cheesecake, coffee, and a private sunrise breakfast."
"Sunrise?" I repeated.
Elena looked confused.
"Yes. The reservation began before dawn."
I stared at the table.
Vincent had refused for three years to get up early enough to watch a sunrise with me.
He said mornings were for sleeping.
He told me romantic gestures were childish.
But for Sophia, he had rented an entire bakery and watched the sun come up over Chicago.
I swallowed hard.
"Please continue."
Elena shifted uncomfortably.
"Miss Reynolds made several requests. She wanted fresh strawberries, imported vanilla, and a special cake prepared for them to take home."
"Take home?" Rebecca asked.
"Yes. She specified that the takeaway slice should have extra strawberry filling."
My skin prickled.
"Why?"
Elena looked at me.
"She said it was for Mr. Moretti's wife."
The room went silent.
I heard the ticking of Rebecca's desk clock.
Then I asked, "Did she tell you I was allergic?"
Elena shook her head.
"No. She said you loved strawberries."
I felt sick.
Elena continued.
"Something else bothered me. When she ordered that slice, she asked whether we could make the filling particularly strong."
Rebecca leaned forward.
"What do you mean by strong?"
"She wanted more fresh strawberry puree and preserves mixed into it."
I stared at her.
"That doesn't prove anything," I whispered.
"No," Rebecca agreed. "Not by itself."
Elena opened her tote bag and removed a folded receipt.
"I brought a copy of the purchase order. I can preserve the original records and make them available through the proper process."
Rebecca studied it.
Elena pointed to a handwritten note.
TAKEAWAY SLICE — EXTRA STRAWBERRY FILLING — REQUESTED BY S.R.
My hands began trembling.
Sophia hadn't simply brought me leftovers.
She had specifically arranged for that dessert to be prepared.
And Vincent had forced me to eat it.
"There's more," Elena said.
She took a deep breath.
"Before they left, Miss Reynolds asked whether we kept security footage."
Rebecca's eyes narrowed.
"What did you tell her?"
"That the dining area cameras were recorded."
"And what did she say?"
Elena hesitated.
"She asked how long we kept the recordings."
I felt a chill move down my spine.
"Did she ask you to delete them?"
"Not directly. But yesterday, a man came to the bakery and offered me money to clear our footage from that morning."
Rebecca went still.
"Who?"
"I don't know his name."
"Can you describe him?"
"Forties. Dark hair. Gray coat. He drove a black Mercedes."
"Did he say who sent him?"
Elena shook her head.
"He said he represented a private client."
Rebecca closed her notebook.
"Did you accept the money?"
Elena looked offended.
"Absolutely not."
"Good."
Elena's eyes moved toward me.
"Mrs. Moretti, I'm a mother. My youngest daughter has a severe nut allergy. I know what food allergies can do."
Her voice trembled.
"When I heard you'd been hospitalized, I couldn't stop thinking about that extra filling."
I looked down at my hands.
"Thank you for telling us."
She nodded.
Then she said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"Whatever your husband told himself, you had every right to say no."
After Elena left, Rebecca called a private forensic investigator she had worked with on complex civil cases.
His name was Thomas Keane.
He was a former financial-crimes analyst with a reputation for finding inconsistencies other people overlooked.
By Monday, he had identified a possible connection between Sophia Reynolds and a company called Westbridge Capital Partners.
Westbridge was a little-known investment firm registered through several holding entities.
One of its investors was connected to Matteo Moretti.
Vincent's uncle.
The same man who controlled important administrative decisions involving the Moretti family trust.
Rebecca spread the documents across her desk.
"Before Sophia returned to Chicago, she was employed by a consulting firm in New York."
"Doing what?"
"Private wealth management."
I stared at her.
"Sophia told Vincent she worked in fashion."
"That appears to be incomplete at best."
Rebecca pointed to a corporate filing.
"She had experience with estate planning, trusts, and asset transfers."
I remembered Sophia's constant jokes about being terrible with numbers.
How she'd laughed when Vincent mentioned business meetings.
How she'd once told me she didn't understand anything more complicated than a shopping receipt.
She had been lying about far more than her relationship with my husband.
"Rebecca, what exactly are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking Sophia may have returned to Chicago with financial motives. I'm not yet saying those motives explain what happened to you."
"Then what do we do?"
"We gather facts. And we let the appropriate authorities investigate possible crimes."
Before she could continue, my phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number had sent me a photograph.
At first, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
It was a picture of a white marble countertop.
A pale blue ribbon lay beside a small plastic object.
My breathing stopped.
The object was my pregnancy test.
The same test I had hidden inside a velvet jewelry pouch in my bedroom dresser.
The photograph had been taken inside my house.
I knew because the pale blue ribbon had come from a gift Vincent gave me on our second anniversary.
Beneath the photograph was a single sentence.
She knew before your husband did.
I dropped the phone.
Rebecca picked it up carefully.
"Claire?"
I couldn't answer.
My mind was racing backward.
Tuesday morning.
The pregnancy test.
The call to Vincent.
The photograph Sophia sent me.
The following afternoon, when she arrived in Vincent's sweater.
There had been a brief moment when I went upstairs to get my phone charger.
Sophia had asked to use the powder room.
But when I came back, I thought I heard footsteps on the second floor.
I dismissed it.
Now the memory returned with frightening clarity.
Sophia had been near my bedroom.
Near the dresser.
Near the hidden pregnancy test.
I pressed both hands against my mouth.
"She went through my things."
Rebecca examined the photograph.
"We don't know who sent this yet."
"But that's my test."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Then we need to preserve this message and determine its source."
My eyes filled with tears.
"Rebecca, she knew."
Rebecca didn't immediately answer.
I understood her caution.
A photograph did not prove when Sophia had seen the test, who took it, or what she intended to do with the information.
But it proved that somebody had accessed something I believed was private.
And for the first time, I began to wonder whether the worst afternoon of my life had been more than a moment of Vincent's cruelty.
What if Sophia had known about my baby?
What if she had deliberately chosen the one food that could put my life in danger?
And what if Vincent, blinded by his obsession with her, had become the weapon she needed?
I stared at that photograph until the screen went dark.
Then I picked up my phone.
"Rebecca."
"Yes?"
"I want to make a police report."
Her expression softened.
"All right."
My voice was shaking, but the decision wasn't.
"I want them to know everything."
That evening, Vincent called once more.
This time, I answered with Rebecca beside me.
"Claire?"
His voice was rough and exhausted.
I closed my eyes.
For one terrible second, I remembered the man I had married.
"Claire, thank God. Please listen to me."
"You have one minute."
He breathed unevenly.
"I went to the hospital. They wouldn't tell me anything. I know you're hurting, but I need to see you."
"No."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't call me that."
Silence.
Then he whispered, "I would have loved our baby."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
The words struck a place inside me that was still bleeding.
"You didn't even love me enough to believe I was allergic."
He made a broken sound.
"Claire, I know. I know what I did."
"No, Vincent. You're only beginning to understand."
"Please. Let me make it right."
"You can't."
He started crying.
I had heard Vincent Moretti threaten men twice his size without raising his voice.
I had watched hardened criminals tremble when he entered a room.
But I had never heard him sound so helpless.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered. "Anything. I'll give you anything."
I looked at the gold bracelet on Rebecca's desk.
A tiny star for a baby who would never wear it.
"I want you to leave me alone."
Then I ended the call.
And when the silence returned, I discovered something surprising.
May you like
I was still crying.
But I didn't regret hanging up.
