Z

I spent the next morning in a conference room with three attorneys, one forensic accountant and a cup of coffee I forgot to drink.

The documents spread across the table looked like someone else's life.

Claire Bennett Moretti.

My name.

My signature.

My supposed authorization.

Transfers totaling more than eight million dollars.

“I didn't sign these,” I said.

The forensic accountant, Michael Reeves, adjusted his glasses.

“We know.”

“How?”

“The signatures are digitally reproduced. Identical down to the pixel.”

Rebecca slid one page toward me.

“Someone copied your signature from a legitimate document.”

“Why?”

“To make the accounts appear jointly controlled.”

My stomach turned.

“By Vincent?”

Rebecca didn't answer immediately.

That frightened me.

“Do you think he did this?”

“I think we investigate before reaching conclusions.”

I laughed without humor.

“That's lawyer language for maybe.”

“Yes.”

I looked at the papers again.

Vincent's name appeared repeatedly.

Moretti Holdings.

Belladonna Entertainment.

VM Capital.

Entities I had heard mentioned at dinner without ever asking questions.

That was part of the problem.

For seven years, I had accepted Vincent's world without looking too closely.

I wanted to believe his businesses were legitimate because asking harder questions might require harder decisions.

Now my signature was attached to accounts I had never opened.

“I want complete financial disclosure,” I said.

Rebecca nodded.

“We already requested it.”

“No. I mean everything.”

She studied me.

“Claire—”

“If I am divorcing Vincent Moretti, I need to know exactly what I am divorcing.”

Across the city, Vincent received the same news.

His reaction was considerably less calm.

“What do you mean Claire's name is on the accounts?”

Paul Marino stood across from his desk.

“It appears someone used both your signatures.”

“I never authorized accounts in her name.”

“I know.”

“Does Claire?”

Paul hesitated.

Vincent stood.

“Does she think I did this?”

“I don't know.”

“Call Rebecca.”

“No.”

Vincent stared.

Paul was one of approximately six people in Nevada who could say no to him without reconsidering his life choices.

“Why?”

“Because running to Claire every time something looks bad only reinforces the fact that your personal and financial boundaries were a disaster.”

“I didn't put her name on those accounts.”

“Then help us prove it.”

Vincent looked toward the Strip through the wall of glass behind his desk.

His casinos glittered in daylight.

For years those buildings had represented control.

Today they looked like liabilities.

“What does she need?”

“Transparency.”

“She can have it.”

Paul blinked.

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“Vincent, that includes internal family holdings.”

“All of it.”

“Marco won't like that.”

“I don't care.”

“Your uncle will lose his mind.”

“I said I don't care.”

Paul studied him.

“You understand Claire's attorneys could use some of this against you in the divorce.”

“Yes.”

“And you're still authorizing disclosure?”

Vincent looked at him.

“If hiding something protects my money but makes Claire believe I used her name to commit fraud, then the money can burn.”

Paul slowly closed his folder.

“That almost sounded healthy.”

“Get out.”

By five o'clock, Rebecca received access to financial records extensive enough to occupy three accountants for weeks.

I stared at her email.

Vincent had authorized everything.

That wasn't what I expected.

I called Rebecca.

“What does this mean?”

“It means either your husband has nothing to hide or he's exceptionally confident.”

“That's comforting.”

“There's also a personal statement attached.”

“I don't want to read it.”

“It's three sentences.”

I hesitated.

“Fine.”

She forwarded it.

Claire,

I did not open those accounts, and I did not authorize anyone to use your name.

You deserve proof, not another promise, so I have authorized your legal team to review everything.

Vincent.

No apology.

No manipulation.

No Please come home.

Just facts.

That made it more effective than it had any right to be.

That evening was Vincent's visitation.

He arrived carrying diapers and a container of soup.

I eyed the soup.

“What is that?”

“Maria made it.”

“For you?”

“For you.”

“I can feed myself.”

“She said you'd say that.”

I took the container.

“That woman is a traitor.”

Vincent almost smiled.

Sophia had been fussy all afternoon.

By seven, I was exhausted.

Vincent sat in the rocking chair holding her against his shoulder.

“You can go upstairs,” he said.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“Sleep.”

“I'm fine.”

“You've yawned eleven times.”

“You counted?”

“I count everything now.”

Something about that sentence hurt.

“I don't need you taking care of me.”

“I know.”

“Then stop trying.”

He looked at Sophia.

“I'm taking care of her.”

“You brought me soup.”

“Maria brought you soup.”

“You physically transported it.”

That finally made him smile.

A real smile.

Small.

Familiar.

My chest tightened.

For seven years, that smile had meant home.

I hated my body for remembering.

Sophia started crying.

Vincent adjusted her automatically.

“She needs burping.”

“She ate an hour ago.”

“She still does that little face when she has gas.”

I stared.

He was right.

“Fine.”

He lifted Sophia against his shoulder.

Three minutes later, she burped loudly.

Vincent looked absurdly proud.

I laughed before I could stop myself.

The sound surprised both of us.

His eyes found mine.

The room changed.

For one dangerous moment, there were no lawyers.

No Victoria.

No divorce petition.

Just me standing in my mother's living room while my husband held our daughter and smiled at me.

Then I remembered the hospital elevator doors closing.

My laughter died.

Vincent saw it happen.

He looked away first.

At eight, his visit ended.

He placed Sophia in her bassinet.

At the front door, he said, “I gave Rebecca everything.”

“I know.”

“I don't expect you to believe me about the accounts.”

“I don't.”

He nodded.

“But I want to.”

That stopped him.

I immediately wished I hadn't said it.

His expression softened.

“Then I'll give you enough evidence that you don't have to want to.”

I opened the door.

“Goodnight, Vincent.”

“Goodnight, Claire.”

He walked toward his SUV.

Then another vehicle pulled up.

Black sedan.

Marco Moretti stepped out.

He looked grim.

Vincent walked toward him.

“What happened?”

Marco glanced toward my mother's house.

Then lowered his voice.

“We found Daniel.”

“Where?”

“Mexico.”

“And Victoria?”

Marco handed him a folder.

“She wasn't just working with him.”

Vincent opened it.

His face changed.

Inside were photographs, transaction records and copies of messages dating back nearly a year.

Victoria hadn't returned to Las Vegas because she needed Vincent.

She had returned because Daniel Cross had paid her.

And the first payment had been deposited eleven months before Sophia was born.

Vincent turned a page.

Then stopped.

One message from Victoria to Daniel appeared near the bottom.

CLAIRE'S PREGNANT. THAT CHANGES THE TIMELINE.

Daniel had replied:

THEN WE MAKE SURE VINCENT ISN'T THERE WHEN THE BABY COMES.

Vincent's face went white.

Marco grabbed his arm.

“Vincent.”

But Vincent wasn't listening.

He was staring at the message.

Victoria's call during my labor had never been a coincidence.

She knew exactly where Vincent was.

She knew exactly what leaving would cost him.

And Vincent had given her precisely what she wanted.