Chapter 1 - The Four O'Clock Call
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My name is Claire Moretti, and for two years, half the women in Chicago envied my last name while the other half pitied me for the shadow that lived inside my marriage.
At thirty-five, my husband, Adrian Moretti, controlled a sprawling empire of riverfront casinos, deep-water shipping terminals on Lake Michigan, five-star luxury hotels, and the largest private security firm in the Midwest. Boardroom executives and city aldermen lowered their voices when Adrian walked into a room. He was tall, lethal in a bespoke suit, and famous for never breaking his word in business.
Yet there was one woman on earth who could make Adrian forget every promise he had ever made to me.
Sophia Reynolds. His childhood sweetheart.
Ten years ago, before Adrian took control of the Moretti family holdings, Sophia had abruptly left Chicago to pursue a modeling and gallery career in Milan. Two years ago, Adrian and I were married at the insistent blessing of his dying grandmother, Eleanor, who had grown to love me while I managed her private hospice care. For the first eighteen months, our marriage was quiet, steady, and almost warm—until Sophia’s plane touched down at O’Hare six months ago.
Since the afternoon she returned, my marriage had become a three-person arrangement where only I knew the score. Whenever Sophia called with a flat tire, a panic attack, or a lonely evening, Adrian answered on the first ring. Whenever she needed someone to escort her through a crowd, he appeared. And whenever I calmly asked why a married man was spending midnight at another woman’s apartment in Lincoln Park, Adrian’s dark eyes would turn cold, accusing me of being petty, insecure, and jealous of a girl he considered family.
Ethan Walker’s wedding was supposed to be different.
Ethan was Adrian’s best friend and chief legal counsel, and his wedding was being held at an exclusive lakeside estate in Lake Forest. Three months earlier, Adrian had promised me we would attend together for the entire weekend.
I had spent weeks searching for the right dress, finally choosing a floor-length emerald silk evening gown that matched my eyes. By four o'clock that Saturday afternoon, my hair was pinned in soft waves, my makeup was finished, and I was standing in front of my vanity mirror in our Gold Coast penthouse, reaching for my earrings.
Then my cell phone rang on the marble dresser.
I picked it up, expecting Adrian to tell me his driver was downstairs.
"Claire, don't come tonight," Adrian said without preamble, the rumble of his Maybach’s engine humming in the background.
I froze, staring at my reflection in the glass.
"What?" I asked quietly.
"One of the bridesmaids came down with food poisoning an hour ago, and Sophia is stepping in to save the bridal party," Adrian said, his voice brisk and completely devoid of apology. "I’m the best man, so we’re going to be paired together for the procession and the head table photos anyway. It makes more sense for us to arrive together."
My fingers tightened around the cool glass edge of my phone.
"Adrian, Ethan and Hannah invited me as your wife," I said, keeping my voice level. "I’m already dressed. The car can pick me up on the way to the highway."
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"Don't make this complicated, Claire," he replied, his tone hardening with that familiar flash of impatience. "You know Sophia gets anxious around large crowds after what she went through in Milan. If you show up in a mood, it’s going to ruin Ethan’s night. I already told them you caught a stomach virus. Stay home and get some rest."
Before I could say another word, the line clicked dead.
