Chapter 4 - The Child He Didn’t Know Existed
Vincent learned about my pregnancy on January 3.
Not because I wanted him to.
Because Rebecca convinced me that delaying the truth would create unnecessary problems later.
“You are not asking permission,” she reminded me.
“I know.”
“You are giving formal notice of a material fact that will matter during the divorce.”
“I know.”
“And he does not get your medical records.”
“I know.”
Rebecca leaned back.
“You keep saying that like you want me to stop.”
“I do.”
She smiled.
“No.”
We scheduled a meeting at her office.
Neutral ground.
Vincent arrived ten minutes early.
His attorney came with him.
Daniel Price was silver-haired, expensive, and looked permanently disappointed in everyone.
I had met him once at a charity dinner.
He greeted me professionally.
No sympathy.
I appreciated that.
Vincent stared at me.
Three weeks had passed since Christmas Eve.
He looked thinner.
I probably did too.
Rebecca began with finances.
Account disclosures.
Temporary use of the marital home.
Preservation orders.
Business valuations.
Then she placed one final document on the table.
“Dr. Moretti also needs to disclose that she is pregnant.”
Vincent did not react immediately.
Then every muscle in his body went still.
“What?”
I looked at the window.
Not him.
Rebecca continued.
“Pregnancy has been medically confirmed. Estimated due date is August twenty-first.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Claire.”
I said nothing.
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
His eyes filled instantly.
“How long have you known?”
“December twenty-second.”
He leaned back as though physically struck.
“You knew Christmas Eve.”
“Yes.”
“When I came into the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“When you served me.”
“Yes.”
His face twisted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I finally looked at him.
“Because you were standing outside another pregnant woman’s room asking whether your baby was safe.”
Daniel Price shifted.
Rebecca remained perfectly still.
Vincent whispered, “Our baby.”
“Yes.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Oh my God.”
Nobody spoke.
He looked at me again.
“Is the baby okay?”
“Currently, yes.”
“Heartbeat?”
I hated that the question hurt.
“Yes.”
He started crying.
Not dramatically.
Quiet tears.
The kind I once would have wiped away.
“I thought we might never…”
He stopped.
I knew the sentence.
After the miscarriage, we had both feared another pregnancy might never happen.
The tragedy was that this baby was something both of us had wanted.
Just no longer inside the marriage we once believed would receive it.
“Can I see the ultrasound?”
“No.”
His face changed.
“Claire.”
“I’m not comfortable with that.”
“It’s my child too.”
“The image is from my medical appointment.”
Daniel touched Vincent’s sleeve.
“Not now.”
Vincent ignored him.
“I want to come to the next appointment.”
“No.”
“You cannot keep me away from everything.”
“I’m not discussing future parenting today.”
“I’m the father.”
“Yes.”
“Then I should be there.”
I felt anger rise.
“You were the father last time.”
The room went silent.
Vincent looked down.
Rebecca stepped in.
“Medical attendance and eventual parenting arrangements are separate issues.”
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“Of course you would say that.”
Rebecca’s expression did not change.
“Yes. I’m her attorney.”
He looked at me.
“You are punishing me.”
“No.”
“You won’t even let me see a picture of my child.”
“I am protecting my pregnancy from stress.”
“From me.”
“Currently, yes.”
His attorney whispered something.
Vincent ignored him again.
“Can we speak alone?”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“I need five minutes.”
“You had five years.”
His face tightened.
That line ended the request.
The financial discussion resumed.
Vincent denied intentionally hiding marital assets.
He described VRM Holdings as an “investment vehicle.”
Rebecca asked whether most investment vehicles hosted fake weddings.
Daniel Price actually closed his eyes.
Vincent became furious.
The meeting ended after ninety minutes.
In the hallway, he caught up with me.
He did not touch me.
At least he had learned that.
“Please.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I want to know one thing.”
“What?”
“If Vanessa had never come into your hospital, would you have told me about the baby?”
I considered lying.
“No.”
He looked devastated.
“I had already hired Rebecca.”
“I know.”
“I was going to leave.”
“Before Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was scared.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
I looked at my stomach.
“Of being wrong.”
He understood.
I had wanted proof.
Not of his affair.
Of the pregnancy surviving.
For years, Vincent had been the person I shared fear with.
Losing that habit was harder than losing his toothbrush beside mine.
“I would have told you after the ultrasound,” I said. “Through Rebecca.”
His eyes filled again.
“Was there ever a chance for us?”
“Before Vanessa?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“After?”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“So that’s it.”
“That was it three years ago. I just didn’t know.”
I walked away.
Later that afternoon, Vanessa called.
She had moved out of the Lincoln Park condo.
Her sister was helping.
“Vincent keeps calling.”
“He keeps calling me too.”
“I blocked him.”
“Smart.”
There was silence.
Then she asked, “Are you pregnant?”
My entire body stiffened.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
Anger flashed.
Of course.
The pregnancy had belonged to my body for less than seven weeks and he had already distributed the information.
“What exactly did he say?”
“That you’re pregnant and he thinks you might keep him away from the baby.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Vanessa’s voice was quiet.
“Congratulations.”
The word shocked me.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
Another silence.
Then she said, “Our babies will be close in age.”
Our babies.
Half-siblings.
I had managed not to think about that.
Vanessa was approximately eight weeks on Christmas Eve.
I had been almost seven weeks three days later.
If both pregnancies continued, our children would be born within weeks of each other.
Same father.
Different mothers.
A family created by deceit.
I sat down.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Neither do I.”
“Vincent will.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll try to make the children a reason for everyone to remain connected to him.”
Vanessa went quiet.
“You know him better.”
“I’m starting to wonder.”
She inhaled.
“Claire, I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“The condo.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Why?”
“Because there are things here that belong to the story he told me.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“No.”
Her voice strengthened.
“You haven’t.”
I nearly refused.
Then she said something that changed my mind.
“There is a photograph from the night you miscarried.”
I stopped breathing.
“Of what?”
“Vincent.”
Two days later, Rebecca and I went to the condo.
Vanessa’s sister, Leah, was there.
No Vincent.
I made sure of that.
The place was beautiful.
Bright windows.
Cream furniture.
A nursery already partially prepared.
I stood in the living room realizing my husband had selected another sofa while telling me he had no time to replace our broken dishwasher.
Vanessa brought a photo album.
Wedding pictures.
Trips.
Holidays.
Three years of evidence.
Then one photograph.
January 17.
11:38 p.m.
Vanessa lay on a couch under a blanket after her fertility procedure.
Vincent sat beside her.
He was smiling at someone off camera.
In his hand was his phone.
At 11:41 that night, I had left him a voicemail.
Please come. I’m scared.
The photograph did not show whether he heard it.
It did not need to.
He was there.
Not two hours away.
Not trapped by work.
There.
Vanessa sat across from me.
“I found something else.”
She opened a drawer.
Inside was a small white box.
My heart stopped.
Tiny white baby socks.
Not similar socks.
The same brand.
The same pale gray stitching.
I knew because I had held them after my miscarriage until the fabric became warm in my hands.
“What are those?”
Vanessa looked confused.
“Vincent gave them to me when our first IVF cycle started.”
The room disappeared around me.
“Claire?”
I stood.
“Those were mine.”
“What?”
“He bought those when I was pregnant.”
Vanessa’s face drained.
“He told me he bought them for our future baby.”
“He took them from our house.”
I remembered searching my nightstand months after the miscarriage.
The socks were gone.
Vincent told me he had put them away because seeing them hurt too much.
He had not put them away.
He gave them to another woman.
Vanessa began crying.
I reached for the box.
Then stopped.
“May I?”
She nodded.
I picked up the socks.
For the first time since Christmas Eve, rage completely replaced grief.
Vincent had not only built a second future.
He had furnished it with pieces stolen from our first one.
That evening, I sent him one photograph.
The socks in my hand.
No message.
May you like
He called eleven times.
I never answered.
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