Z
Vincent did not call Victoria back.
He went to her condo instead.
Two Moretti security vehicles followed his SUV through the Strip, though he had ordered both teams to remain downstairs when he entered the private building.
Victoria opened the door wearing one of his old college sweatshirts.
That was her first mistake.
Vincent noticed immediately.
“Where did you get that?”
She glanced down.
“This? I've had it forever.”
“I thought you lost everything when you came back.”
Her smile slipped.
“Almost everything.”
He stepped inside.
For fifteen days, the condo had felt familiar.
Comfortable.
A place where he could solve problems.
Now he noticed things he'd somehow overlooked.
Fresh flowers.
Imported wine.
Shopping bags from luxury boutiques.
The woman who had called him from McCarran Airport claiming she had nowhere to go had somehow managed to spend nearly thirty thousand dollars in two weeks.
He knew because his accountant had flagged the charges that morning.
Victoria followed him.
“You disappeared.”
“My wife left me.”
“I heard.”
His head turned.
“How?”
Victoria blinked.
“You told me.”
“No, I didn't.”
She recovered quickly.
“I assumed. You've been acting strange.”
Vincent said nothing.
People often mistook his silence for patience.
It wasn't.
Silence was how Vincent Moretti gave people enough room to trap themselves.
Victoria crossed her arms.
“So what happened?”
“Claire filed for divorce.”
A tiny expression crossed Victoria's face.
Satisfaction.
It lasted less than a second.
Vincent saw it anyway.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
She stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“My wife moved out with my daughter, and you almost smiled.”
“Vincent, that's ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
Victoria stepped closer.
“I've spent fifteen days trying not to say what everyone already knows.”
“And what's that?”
“She doesn't understand you.”
His face went blank.
Victoria mistook that for encouragement.
“She never has. Claire wants a normal husband. Someone who comes home every night and helps fold laundry and spends Sundays at farmers markets.”
Vincent thought about the empty nursery.
“You say that like it's unreasonable.”
“She married a Moretti.”
“She married me.”
“And you aren't normal.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“But I was supposed to be her husband.”
Victoria swallowed.
He held up his phone.
“Who took this photograph?”
Her eyes dropped to the screen.
“I don't know.”
“It was sent to me twenty-seven minutes after I left Claire's mother's house.”
“Maybe one of your security people.”
“None of them knew I was there.”
Victoria looked away.
That was her second mistake.
Vincent's voice lowered.
“Did you have my wife followed?”
“No.”
“Careful.”
Something in his tone made her step backward.
“You've always been protective of me,” she said. “I thought—”
“Answer the question.”
“I asked someone to make sure Claire was safe.”
Vincent's expression didn't change.
“Who?”
“A private investigator.”
“You hired a private investigator to follow my wife and newborn daughter?”
“When you say it like that—”
“There is only one way to say it.”
Victoria's eyes filled with tears.
Years ago, those tears had been capable of breaking every rational thought in his head.
Now he looked at them and thought of Claire in a hospital bed.
“You don't understand what I've been through.”
“I understand exactly what you've told me.”
“My ex was dangerous.”
“You said he followed you from London.”
“He did.”
“You said your bank accounts were frozen.”
“They were.”
“You said you had no money.”
“I didn't.”
Vincent glanced toward the shopping bags.
“That appears to have changed.”
Her face hardened.
“You offered to help.”
“I offered you somewhere safe to stay.”
“You've spent millions without blinking.”
“My money isn't the point.”
“No. Claire is.”
For the first time, jealousy sharpened Victoria's voice.
There it was.
Vincent finally heard what he should have heard on the first night.
“She has everything,” Victoria continued. “Your house. Your name. Your child. She had you for seven years.”
“My wife having me wasn't something she stole from you.”
Victoria stared.
“You loved me first.”
Vincent's expression became almost cold.
“I was twenty-two.”
“You said you'd love me forever.”
“I also thought I'd own a Ferrari by twenty-five and never wear a suit.”
She looked wounded.
“You don't mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then why did you come when I called?”
That stopped him.
Because he had been asking himself the same thing.
Guilt.
Memory.
Ego.
Some ancient instinct to save the woman who had once walked out of his life before he could stop her.
Whatever the reason, none of them justified what he'd done.
“I made a mistake.”
Victoria went pale.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying I should never have left the hospital.”
She stepped toward him.
“You promised you wouldn't abandon me.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“And I abandoned my wife instead.”
Victoria's face changed.
“You're blaming me.”
“No.”
His answer surprised her.
“I'm blaming myself.”
He walked toward the door.
“But I'm not going to let you use my guilt anymore.”
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
“If I discover you had Claire followed again, you won't like what happens next.”
“You'd threaten me for her?”
He looked back.
“I'd protect my family from anyone.”
The door closed behind him.
Victoria stood alone in the condo.
Then she grabbed a wineglass and hurled it against the wall.
Across town, I knew none of this.
My evening consisted of breastfeeding, pain medication, three loads of baby laundry and trying to remember the last time I'd washed my hair.
Divorce looked a lot less glamorous when performed in maternity pajamas.
At nine thirty, Rebecca called.
“Vincent's attorney contacted me.”
I braced myself.
“And?”
“He isn't contesting temporary physical custody.”
That stunned me.
“What?”
“He wants frequent visitation, obviously. But he isn't filing an emergency motion to force Sophia back into the penthouse.”
“Why?”
“I can't read his mind.”
“You're charging me six hundred dollars an hour. Try.”
Rebecca laughed.
“My professional guess? He knows fighting you aggressively this early would make him look terrible.”
“That sounds like Vincent.”
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“He agreed to continue paying household expenses while the divorce is pending.”
“I don't want his money.”
“It isn't his money, Claire. Much of it is marital.”
“I have my own.”
“Good. Keep it.”
I smiled despite myself.
Rebecca continued.
“More importantly, his attorney asked whether Vincent could attend Sophia's pediatric appointment tomorrow.”
My smile vanished.
“How does he know about that?”
“You included the medical schedule in your disclosure.”
Right.
I had forgotten.
“Do I have to let him?”
“No.”
I looked at Sophia sleeping against me.
A father showing up for medical appointments shouldn't have felt extraordinary.
That was the problem.
“I'll allow it.”
“You're sure?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
The next morning, I arrived at the pediatric clinic ten minutes early.
Vincent was already there.
Not on his phone.
Not surrounded by bodyguards.
Sitting in a plastic chair holding a notebook.
I stopped.
“What is that?”
He stood.
“A list.”
“Of what?”
“Questions.”
I stared.
“You made a list?”
“I don't know anything about babies.”
“That didn't seem to bother you for fifteen days.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
We sat across from each other.
Sophia slept in her carrier.
After several awkward minutes, Vincent asked, “Did she sleep last night?”
“Two hours at a time.”
“Is that normal?”
“Yes.”
“Does she always make that noise when she breathes?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the nurse called us.
Inside the examination room, Vincent listened to every word the pediatrician said.
Weight.
Jaundice levels.
Feeding schedule.
Safe sleep.
Vaccinations.
He wrote everything down.
When Sophia cried during the examination, Vincent looked genuinely distressed.
The doctor smiled.
“First baby?”
“Yes,” we said simultaneously.
Our eyes met.
For half a second, we were married again.
Then the moment disappeared.
Afterward, Vincent walked me toward the parking lot.
“I can carry the car seat.”
“I've got it.”
“Claire.”
“I said I've got it.”
His hand dropped.
“Okay.”
I put Sophia into my car.
Vincent stood several feet away.
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“If I had come back the first night…”
I froze.
“If I had realized immediately how badly I'd failed you, would you still have left?”
I considered lying.
Instead, I told him the truth.
“I don't know.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“That's worse.”
“Yes.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A photograph appeared.
Victoria Hale walking into Vincent's private casino office three months earlier.
Long before she had supposedly returned to Las Vegas.
Under the image was a sentence.
Ask your husband when his first love really came back.
I looked up at Vincent.
He saw my face.
“What happened?”
I turned the phone toward him.
And for the first time since I'd left, Vincent Moretti looked genuinely shocked.
Because Victoria had lied to both of us.