Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Helped Erase MeI hadn't been afraid of Alexander Moretti for ten years.
Now, standing backstage in a Manhattan television studio, I was afraid of someone I couldn't even identify.
The photograph on my phone showed a younger version of me leaving a medical clinic in Chicago.
My coat was buttoned incorrectly.
My hair was windblown.
And my left hand was pressed against the small envelope containing the first ultrasound image of my son.
I remembered that morning perfectly.
The cold.
The gray sky.
The strange combination of terror and happiness that had made me laugh while sitting alone in my car.
I had been pregnant for the first time.
After years of negative tests and disappointing appointments, I had finally heard the words I had dreamed of hearing.
You're going to have a baby.
Alexander and I were already separating.
The divorce papers had been prepared, but the final order hadn't yet been entered.
I had driven home intending to tell him.
Instead, his attorney had been waiting outside our apartment.
By the time Alexander finally returned my call, I was sitting on the floor beside a suitcase.
He had told me the marriage needed to end.
He had called it unfortunate.
Necessary.
Overdue.
I had asked whether there was another woman.
He said there wasn't.
Three days after the divorce became final, Sophia posted their anniversary video.
Five years of love.
And now someone had a photograph proving that my pregnancy had never been as private as I believed.
Daniel took the phone from my trembling hand.
He studied the messages.
“Claire, we need to get Noah somewhere secure.”
Noah looked between us.
“What's wrong?”
I put an arm around his shoulders.
“Someone sent Mommy an unpleasant message.”
“About Dad?”
The word still startled me.
Noah had always called Daniel by his first name.
When he said Dad, he meant the biological father he knew only through stories.
“Yes,” I admitted.
Noah's expression became thoughtful.
“Is he mad about the interview?”
“I don't know.”
Daniel handed my phone back.
“We're not going to guess. We'll call the show's security team and our attorney.”
I nodded.
That was one of the things I appreciated about Daniel.
He didn't pretend that anger could solve every problem.
He thought before acting.
And he never treated me like someone incapable of protecting herself.
The production manager quickly arranged for us to remain in a private backstage room while security reviewed the messages.
Within minutes, my attorney, Rachel Kim, joined the call from Denver.
Rachel had handled Daybreak Coffee's contracts for six years.
She was also one of the few people who knew my complete history.
When I showed her the photograph, her expression hardened.
“Do you still have copies of your divorce documents?”
“Yes. Everything is in a locked cabinet at home.”
“Have you ever reviewed them with an independent attorney?”
“Not completely.”
Rachel exhaled.
“Then that's where we start.”
Daniel frowned.
“Could someone use an old divorce document to threaten Claire?”
“Possibly,” Rachel said. “But I won't speculate without reading it.”
She paused.
“Claire, does the name Victor Sloane mean anything to you?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
Victor Sloane had been Alexander's chief financial officer and one of his most trusted advisers.
He was fifty years old when I last saw him, a thin man with silver hair and an almost unnervingly polite voice.
Victor had handled much of the paperwork surrounding my divorce.
He was also the man who had personally delivered the envelope I signed.
“Why?” I asked.
Rachel looked directly into the camera.
“Because one of my contacts in Chicago mentioned that his name has recently surfaced in a federal financial investigation.”
I felt a slow chill.
“What kind of investigation?”
“Corporate fraud. Suspicious transfers. Several nonprofit organizations connected to Moretti Holdings.”
I thought of the documents.
Of the pages I had signed.
Of Alexander telling me that he would make sure I was financially protected.
“I didn't take anything from him,” I said.
“I know.”
“Not the house. Not his money. Not even the jewelry.”
Rachel's voice softened.
“Claire, refusing a settlement doesn't necessarily mean your signature couldn't have been used elsewhere.”
I closed my eyes.
For seven years, I had been so desperate to be loved that I had mistaken secrecy for devotion.
Now I wondered what else I had mistaken for something harmless.
Two hours later, Alexander Moretti was sitting across from Sophia Reynolds in his Chicago penthouse.
Between them lay a printed photograph of Noah.
Alexander had taken it from a screenshot of the televised interview.
He had been staring at it throughout the drive home.
Sophia hadn't touched her lunch.
“Tell me the truth,” he said.
She looked exhausted.
“I already told you I didn't know Claire was pregnant.”
Alexander placed another photograph beside the first.
It showed him at approximately ten years old.
The resemblance was almost unbearable.
Same eyes.
Same eyebrows.
Same narrow chin.
Sophia glanced at both photographs.
Then looked away.
“We don't know anything without a DNA test.”
“I'm aware.”
“Then stop acting as though she's already proven something.”
Alexander looked at her.
“Do you remember what you told me after Claire disappeared?”
Sophia went still.
“What?”
“You said she had probably found someone else.”
“That was years ago.”
“You said she had been unhappy for a long time.”
“She was.”
“How would you know?”
Sophia's mouth tightened.
“Because anyone could see it.”
Alexander leaned forward.
“Anyone?”
She said nothing.
“Or because you and Emily were discussing my wife behind my back?”
“Your ex-wife.”
He stared at her.
Sophia folded her arms.
“You divorced her, Alexander. You signed those papers. You cannot suddenly act like I stole something that you willingly gave away.”
The words landed with brutal accuracy.
He had divorced Claire.
No one had forged his signature.
No one had forced him to spend five years carrying on an affair while his wife waited for him to come home.
He had told himself that Claire was protected by being kept out of the public eye.
But he had accepted public admiration beside Sophia.
He had given Sophia the photographs, charity galas, vacations, and public declarations that Claire had begged for.
And he had refused Claire even the dignity of being acknowledged as his wife.
Alexander rubbed his face.
“I know what I did.”
“Then why are you punishing me for it?”
“Because I want to know what you did.”
Sophia's eyes flickered.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He opened a folder.
Inside were copies of several letters his former attorney had sent after the divorce.
Letters asking whether Claire had been located.
Requests for updated contact information.
Correspondence about property that remained in storage.
Alexander slid one page across the table.
“This came from my attorney eleven months after Claire disappeared.”
Sophia glanced at it.
It was a typed note stating that all reasonable attempts to reach Claire Bennett had failed.
At the bottom was a handwritten annotation.
Forwarded to S. Reynolds for review.
Sophia's face tightened.
Alexander watched her carefully.
“Why were letters concerning Claire being sent to you?”
“Because you asked me to help manage your personal correspondence.”
“Not until the following year.”
Sophia opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Alexander felt his stomach turn.
“Who authorized this?”
“I don't remember.”
“Try.”
“Alexander, this is ridiculous.”
“Who gave you access to correspondence about my former wife?”
Sophia stood.
“I am not going to sit here while you interrogate me about a woman who abandoned you.”
Alexander rose slowly.
“Claire didn't abandon me.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I divorced her.”
For the first time, Sophia seemed unsure what to say.
He looked at the photographs of Noah.
“And if that boy is mine, then there are ten years I can never get back.”
Sophia picked up her purse.
“Perhaps you should have thought about that before you threw your marriage away.”
She walked out.
Alexander remained standing.
Her final sentence was true.
And that made it worse.
At four that afternoon, I received another phone call.
This time, the caller identified herself.
“Claire?”
The voice was older.
Softer.
But unmistakable.
Emily Carter.
For one moment, I was twenty-eight again, standing in my kitchen while the woman I trusted most begged me to protect my husband's mistress.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Emily began crying.
“I saw the interview.”
“Congratulations.”
“Claire, please.”
“No. You don't get to say my name like we're friends.”
She went silent.
I could hear traffic in the background.
A car horn.
Someone shouting.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Chicago.”
“Then stay there.”
“Claire, there are things you don't understand.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That's what you told me ten years ago.”
“I know.”
“You told me Sophia was sensitive. You told me to delete my comment because I might upset her.”
Emily sobbed.
“I was wrong.”
“You were cruel.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside me at my wedding, Emily.”
Her crying became quieter.
“You were the only person I told about the first year of our marriage. You knew how lonely I was. You knew I wanted a baby. You knew I cried every anniversary because Alexander wouldn't acknowledge me in public.”
“I remember.”
“And while I was crying to you, you were celebrating their relationship behind my back.”
A long silence followed.
Then Emily whispered, “It was worse than that.”
I felt my fingers tighten around the phone.
“What?”
“I didn't just know about Sophia.”
My heart began beating faster.
“I helped her.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“Money.”
One word.
After all these years.
One pathetic, ugly word.
Emily continued through tears.
“My father's business was failing. Victor offered to help us. He said all I had to do was keep Sophia informed about your plans.”
I couldn't speak.
“He wanted to know when you would attend public events with Alexander, when you were planning to confront him, when you were thinking about leaving.”
I remembered dozens of conversations.
The night I planned to surprise Alexander at a charity gala.
Emily had persuaded me not to go.
The weekend I told her I might confront Sophia.
Emily had insisted I wait.
The anniversary dinner when I wanted to demand that Alexander finally introduce me as his wife.
Emily had called to say she needed me.
I had cancelled.
All those times, I had believed she was protecting me.
“You were reporting on me?”
“Yes.”
The word made me nauseated.
“For how long?”
Emily hesitated.
“Almost three years.”
I covered my mouth.
She began talking faster.
“Claire, I didn't know everything. I thought Victor wanted to keep the peace. I thought Sophia would eventually get what she wanted and you would leave with a settlement. I didn't understand how dangerous it was.”
“Dangerous?”
Emily stopped crying.
“That's why I'm calling.”
I looked across the room.
Daniel was helping Noah assemble a model airplane the show's staff had given him.
For one brief second, I wanted to hang up and pretend none of this had happened.
Instead, I walked into the hallway.
“What are you talking about?”
Emily lowered her voice.
“Victor is trying to find you.”
“Why?”
“Because your name is connected to a trust that was created just before the divorce.”
My breath caught.
“What trust?”
“The Bennett Family Protection Trust.”
I stared at the wall.
I had never heard that name.
Emily continued.
“It was supposed to hold money for your future security. At least, that's what I was told.”
“Alexander never mentioned it.”
“I know.”
“Then how would I have authorized it?”
“The documents you signed.”
I felt sick.
“What happened to the money?”
Emily swallowed.
“That's what the investigators are trying to determine.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Emily. How much money?”
There was a pause.
“Forty-eight million dollars.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
Forty-eight million.
I had spent my first year in Denver sleeping in a rented apartment above a bakery.
I had worked until my hands cracked from washing dishes.
I had counted every dollar while trying to buy diapers and pay rent.
I had borrowed money from a credit union to open my first coffee shop.
And somewhere, my name had allegedly been attached to forty-eight million dollars.
“Where did it go?”
“I don't know.”
“Who does?”
“Victor.”
“Then tell the authorities.”
“I've been trying to gather proof.”
My voice sharpened.
“You had nearly eleven years to tell me the truth.”
“I know. But something changed when you appeared on television.”
“What changed?”
“Your son.”
I stopped breathing.
Emily's voice dropped.
“Claire, that trust has a provision concerning your children.”
My eyes drifted toward the room where Noah was laughing with Daniel.
“What kind of provision?”
“I don't have the complete document. But Victor believed there would never be any beneficiaries.”
I felt cold.
“Because he thought I had no children.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
Emily began crying again.
“Now everyone knows you have a son.”
I pressed my hand against the wall.
“Emily, listen carefully. Is someone going to try to take my child?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not legally. A trust can't make someone a parent or transfer custody. But it could expose money that certain people have spent years hiding.”
“Who?”
Emily hesitated.
“Victor.”
“And Sophia?”
A long silence.
Then she whispered, “Especially Sophia.”
Before I could respond, I heard a sharp noise on her end of the line.
A car door slammed.
Emily gasped.
“Someone's here.”
“Emily?”
“I have to go.”
“Emily, don't hang up.”
“Claire, whatever happens, please believe one thing.”
“What?”
“Alexander made terrible choices. But he never knew what they did with the documents after he signed them.”
I stood frozen.
Then Emily said something that made my blood run cold.
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Don't let Victor convince you that the money belongs to Noah.”
The line went dead.
I called back immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Straight to voicemail.
I looked down at my phone.
A new message had arrived.
This time it wasn't from an unknown number.
It was from Alexander Moretti.
The first direct message he had sent me in almost eleven years.
Claire, I saw the interview.
Another message appeared.
I know I have no right to ask you for anything.
Then a third.
But I need to know one thing.
I waited.
His final message appeared.
Is Noah my son?
I stared at those words for a long time.
Then I typed a reply.
Yes, Alexander. Noah is your son.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally, his answer arrived.
I want to meet him.
I looked through the doorway at Noah.
He was laughing so hard he had fallen sideways against Daniel's shoulder.
I watched them for a few seconds.
Then I wrote six words.
You don't get to decide that.
May you like
I pressed send.
And for the first time since our divorce, Alexander Moretti had no answer.
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