Chapter 9 - THE WOMAN IN THE NEW YORK APARTMENT|
New York greeted Claire with a cold wind and a sky the color of brushed steel.
Ethan's assistant met her at the airport and drove her to a furnished apartment overlooking a quiet street in Manhattan. The place was smaller than Vincent's penthouse, but it had sunlight, a working kitchen, and windows that opened.
Most importantly, nobody knew her as Mrs. Moretti.
The first evening, Claire unpacked slowly. She placed her clothes in the closet, lined her toiletries beside the sink, and set the ultrasound photograph on the kitchen counter.
The apartment looked unfamiliar.
She decided that was a good thing.
The next morning, she met Ethan at Carter Global's offices. He introduced her to the team, showed her the financial strategy department, and gave her a private office overlooking the city.
“Your first priority is to settle in,” he told her. “You don't need to prove anything during your first week.”
Claire smiled.
“I've spent five years proving things to people who never asked.”
“Then let's try a different approach.”
He handed her a folder.
“Your team has been waiting for someone who understands both the numbers and the people behind them.”
Claire opened the folder and found a major acquisition proposal.
For the first time in years, she became absorbed in a problem that had nothing to do with Vincent's enemies, his family, or Sophia's feelings.
She worked for three hours without checking her phone.
At lunch, she called her doctor to arrange prenatal care in New York. The appointment was scheduled for the following week. She also contacted her bank to ensure that her personal accounts remained secure and separate from any marital assets.
Jonathan had reminded her to keep everything transparent.
“Leaving a marriage is not the same as hiding money,” he had said. “The clearer your records, the stronger your position.”
Claire followed that advice.
In the afternoon, she received a message from Vincent.
Are you safe?
She stared at it for a long time.
It was the first question he had asked that did not contain an order.
She replied:
Yes.
His answer came almost immediately.
Where are you?
Claire placed the phone facedown.
A few minutes later, another message arrived.
I need to know you're all right.
She typed a response, deleted it, and tried again.
I'm safe. Please communicate through my attorney.
She sent it.
Then she turned off notifications.
That evening, she bought groceries and cooked a simple meal. She burned the first piece of chicken, laughed at herself, and tried again. When she sat down to eat, she realized she had gone an entire day without feeling responsible for another adult's emotions.
The relief was so unfamiliar that it frightened her.
Later, while sorting through the envelope Marco had left, she examined the photograph of Sophia outside the clinic.
The date on the back matched the date Isabella had supposedly died.
The handwritten note still troubled her.
She never died there.
Claire called Marco again.
“Did you find anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you spoken to an attorney about the documents?”
“Yes. I'm arranging a confidential consultation.”
“Good. Don't put yourself or your family in danger.”
“I won't.”
Claire hesitated.
“Why did you bring this to me?”
Marco's answer came quietly.
“Because Vincent loved you before he learned how to hide it. I thought if he understood what was happening, he might finally stop destroying the things he cared about.”
“That's not my responsibility anymore.”
“I know.”
“Does he know about the note?”
“No.”
“Then don't tell him I have it. Not yet.”
Marco agreed.
After the call, Claire sat beside the window and watched the city lights emerge.
She still loved Vincent in the way people sometimes love a place they can no longer live. The feeling was real, but it was not an instruction to return.
She pressed a hand to her stomach.
“Your father is complicated,” she whispered. “But you don't have to become his cure.”
Her phone vibrated one last time.
A message from an unknown number.
You shouldn't have taken that photograph.
Claire went completely still.
She had not told anyone in New York about the photograph.
She had not sent it to anyone.
Only a handful of people knew about the envelope.
She forwarded the message to Jonathan and Marco, then checked the apartment door.
The lock was secure.
Still, as she stood in the quiet room, one thought settled over her.
Someone had known she was leaving Chicago.
May you like
Someone knew about the evidence.
And someone was now watching her in New York.
