Z
Victoria was arrested forty-eight hours later.
Not because Vincent ordered it.
Not because the Moretti family made a phone call.
She was arrested because my mother's doorbell camera recorded her attempting to enter private property after being explicitly told to leave, and my attorney insisted we handle it like ordinary people.
That turned out to be remarkably satisfying.
“What do you mean I can't call anyone?” Vincent demanded when Rebecca informed him.
She stared across the conference table.
“I mean exactly what I said.”
We were meeting to discuss temporary custody.
Vincent's attorney, Paul Marino, looked exhausted.
Rebecca looked delighted.
Vincent looked like a man being forced to communicate in a language he hated.
“You do not contact the police,” Rebecca continued. “You do not contact the prosecutor. You do not contact the judge.”
“I wasn't going to contact a judge.”
“Wonderful. We're making progress.”
I hid a smile.
Vincent noticed.
For one dangerous second, his mouth almost curved too.
Then we both remembered why we were there.
Rebecca opened a folder.
“Mrs. Bennett is requesting that all visitation occur either at her mother's residence or another agreed location for the next thirty days.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Supervised?”
“No,” I said.
He glanced at the document.
“It says someone else should be present.”
“That's because Sophia is three weeks old and you've spent almost no time caring for her alone.”
“I can learn.”
“I hope you do.”
His jaw tightened.
“I want more than two hours.”
“Then show up consistently.”
“Claire—”
Rebecca interrupted.
“This isn't couples therapy.”
Paul murmured, “Thank God.”
Rebecca gave him a look.
The meeting continued.
We agreed on three visits each week initially, increasing as Sophia got older.
Vincent didn't fight me.
That disturbed me more than fighting would have.
At the end, Rebecca gathered her papers.
“Mrs. Bennett will continue residing separately.”
Vincent's eyes remained on me.
“I understand.”
It was the first time I had heard him acknowledge the separation formally.
My stomach twisted.
Afterward, he caught me near the elevator.
“Can I talk to you?”
“My attorney just told you this isn't couples therapy.”
“Five minutes.”
I looked at him.
“You have three.”
He almost smiled again.
“Victoria knew Daniel Cross.”
“Yes.”
“They accessed Marco's office.”
“You told me.”
“We discovered what they were looking for.”
The elevator doors opened.
I didn't enter.
“What?”
“Internal financial files.”
“Why would Victoria care about your financial files?”
“She probably doesn't.”
“But Daniel does.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Someone has been siphoning money through vendor contracts for nearly two years. Daniel may have been involved before we fired him.”
“And now?”
“We think he wanted evidence that could make it look like Marco was responsible.”
I stared.
“This has nothing to do with me.”
“It does now.”
My stomach dropped.
“How?”
“The anonymous messages.”
“You think Daniel sent them?”
“Maybe.”
“Why help me?”
“Because hurting our marriage hurts me.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You managed that without assistance.”
Vincent closed his eyes for a second.
“Yes.”
The elevator arrived again.
I entered.
Before the doors closed, he said, “Claire.”
I looked at him.
“I changed Sophia's emergency contact information with the pediatrician.”
“What?”
“You listed only yourself and your mother.”
“That's correct.”
“I asked them to add me.”
Anger flashed through me.
“You had no right—”
“They wouldn't.”
I stopped.
Vincent nodded slightly.
“They said only the custodial parent who completed the paperwork could authorize it.”
“Good.”
“I wasn't angry.”
“That would be a refreshing change.”
“I deserved not to be trusted.”
The doors began closing.
His final words reached me through the narrowing gap.
“But I'm going to earn it back.”
I stood inside the elevator long after the doors shut.
Not my marriage.
Not my love.
Trust.
That was the first promise he had made since I left that didn't sound like he expected something in return.
Over the next three weeks, Vincent became irritatingly reliable.
Tuesday, six o'clock.
He arrived at 5:52.
Thursday, six o'clock.
5:49.
Sunday afternoon.
Twenty minutes early.
He changed diapers badly at first.
Sophia peed on him twice.
My mother laughed so hard the second time she had to leave the room.
Vincent simply changed his shirt and continued.
He learned how to prepare bottles.
How to sterilize equipment.
How to recognize Sophia's hungry cry from her overtired cry.
Once, at two in the afternoon, he spent forty minutes walking around my mother's living room because Sophia refused to sleep unless someone was moving.
His phone rang six times.
He ignored it.
Finally I said, “You can answer.”
“No.”
“It might be important.”
He looked down at Sophia.
“This is important.”
I hated that sentence.
Because six weeks earlier, it was exactly what I had wanted him to understand.
Later, after he left, Mom found me washing bottles too aggressively.
“You're angry.”
“He's behaving like a father.”
“Yes.”
“He should've done this from the beginning.”
“Yes.”
“So why does everyone act like he's performing miracles?”
“No one is.”
“He changed one diaper and Maria told me he's trying.”
“You're not angry at Maria.”
“I know.”
Mom took the bottle brush from my hand.
“You're angry because the man you needed was apparently inside him the whole time.”
I looked away.
“And he waited until you left to become that man,” she added.
Tears burned my eyes.
“Exactly.”
That evening, Vincent sat alone in his penthouse.
He hadn't moved back into the master bedroom.
He slept in the guest room.
He said he couldn't stand looking at my empty side of the bed.
No one knew that except Maria.
She found him at the kitchen island studying a printed sheet.
“What is that?”
“Sophia's schedule.”
Maria glanced at it.
“You memorized it.”
“Mostly.”
“Then why are you reading it?”
Vincent didn't answer.
Maria poured herself coffee.
“Mrs. Moretti asked about you today.”
His head lifted quickly.
“What did she say?”
“She asked whether you've been eating.”
Hope flashed across his face.
Maria crushed it immediately.
“I told her yes.”
He looked back down.
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
After a moment, Maria sat across from him.
“Can I tell you something?”
“You always do.”
“You loved Mrs. Moretti badly.”
His expression tightened.
“I loved her.”
“I didn't say you didn't.”
Maria folded her hands.
“But you loved her like a rich man loves something he thinks cannot be taken away.”
Vincent stared.
“You assumed the house would always be here. The marriage would always be here. She would always be here.”
His gaze dropped.
Maria continued.
“Mrs. Moretti loved you like she knew she could lose you.”
“That doesn't sound better.”
“It isn't.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Finally Vincent asked, “Do you think she'll ever forgive me?”
Maria considered him.
“Yes.”
His head rose.
“But forgiveness isn't the same as coming home.”
The hope disappeared.
Maria stood.
“That's the part you need to understand.”
The next morning, my attorney called.
“Claire, we have a problem.”
My stomach tightened.
“What now?”
“Daniel Cross disappeared.”
“So?”
“So before disappearing, he sent financial records to federal investigators.”
I went still.
“Records involving Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“And there's more.”
Rebecca hesitated.
“What?”
“Your name appears on three of the accounts.”
I stopped breathing.
“I've never seen those accounts.”
“I believe you.”
“Will anyone else?”
“We're going to make sure they do.”
For the first time since filing for divorce, I realized that leaving Vincent emotionally might have been the easy part.
Untangling myself from the Moretti empire was going to be much harder.