Chapter 3 - The House I Left Behind|
I returned to the Moretti mansion that afternoon because I needed my passport, my mother's jewelry, and the small box of personal documents I kept in the back of my closet.
I did not return because Vincent had asked me to.
The distinction mattered.
Madison drove me to the estate in her old silver sedan. Two guards stood outside the iron gates, and a third appeared as soon as our car stopped.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he said. “Mr. Moretti asked us to bring you inside.”
“I can walk.”
“Of course.”
He opened the gate, but another guard moved toward Madison.
“She'll stay here.”
“No,” I said. “She is coming with me.”
The guard hesitated.
I had lived in that house for five years. I knew which staff members were kind, which were frightened, and which repeated every conversation to Vincent's chief of security. I knew the rules, even when no one admitted there were rules.
The guard touched his earpiece.
A moment later, the gate opened wider.
Inside, the mansion looked exactly as I had left it. White roses filled the foyer. The chandelier glittered overhead. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the table beneath the staircase.
Everything was beautiful.
Nothing felt like mine.
I found Vincent in his study, standing behind his desk with his phone in one hand. He had removed his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. Several men sat around the conference table, but they stood immediately when I entered.
“Leave us,” Vincent ordered.
The men filed out without a word.
I went straight to the closet.
“Claire.”
I ignored him.
“Where were you last night?”
I pulled a suitcase from the shelf.
“You know where I was.”
“I mean after you left the restaurant.”
“I wasn't at the restaurant with you, Vincent. I was at home. Alone. Eating nothing because you sent me something I couldn't eat.”
His face tightened.
“I didn't know about the allergy.”
“You knew about it for five years.”
He looked away.
It was such a small gesture, but it told me more than any apology could have.
I began placing clothes into the suitcase.
“Are you really leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Because of Sophia?”
I turned.
“Because of you.”
He came around the desk.
“Sophia is my employee. We were having dinner.”
“Then why did she ask whether she was more important than your wife?”
He said nothing.
“Why did you tell her she was?”
His silence was the answer.
I returned to packing.
Vincent stood there for several seconds before speaking again.
“I made a mistake.”
“No. A mistake is forgetting to send a card. A mistake is buying the wrong cake. You made a choice. You looked at another woman and told her she mattered more than the person who had stood beside you for five years.”
“I didn't mean it the way you understood it.”
“Then explain it.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I closed the suitcase.
He looked at it as if it were an accusation.
“Where will you go?”
“That's none of your business.”
“You're carrying my child.”
“And I am still a person, Vincent. Not a possession you can lock inside this house because you're frightened of losing control.”
His expression darkened.
“I have never locked you inside anything.”
“Have you forgotten the driver who called you when I went to see Madison without telling you? Or the time your security chief asked why I had visited a bookstore for two hours? You always called it protection. I called it a marriage. I was wrong.”
He flinched.
For one moment, I thought he might apologize properly.
Instead, he said, “You're emotional. You're pregnant. We should wait before making permanent decisions.”
I almost admired how quickly he could turn my pain into a problem with my judgment.
“I have been making excuses for you since before I turned twenty-two. I won't make another one.”
I picked up the suitcase.
Vincent moved toward the door, then stopped when Madison appeared behind me.
She had been waiting in the hallway, close enough to hear.
“Claire, the car is ready.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“You are not taking my wife anywhere without my permission.”
Madison looked at him calmly.
“She isn't a car, Vincent. You don't own her.”
He took a step toward her.
I moved between them.
“Don't.”
The single word surprised us both.
Vincent stopped.
I had spent five years softening my words so he wouldn't become angry. Now I was standing between him and my best friend, and I realized that I was no longer afraid of the sound of his anger.
I walked past him.
At the top of the staircase, I paused beside the photograph from our wedding. Vincent had insisted on displaying it in the foyer. In the picture, I was laughing, my head tilted toward him. He was looking at me as though I were the only person in the world.
I wondered when he had stopped looking at me that way.
Then I kept walking.
At the front door, his voice followed me.
“If you leave, Claire, you can't expect me to pretend everything is normal.”
I turned back.
“I don't want normal. I want freedom.”
I stepped outside.
The cold Chicago air struck my face, and for the first time in years, I breathed without waiting for someone else's permission.
As Madison loaded my suitcase into the car, a housekeeper hurried down the front steps.
“Mrs. Moretti!”
I turned.
The older woman pressed a small envelope into my hand.
“I was told to give you this if you ever left.”
“Who told you?”
Her eyes flicked toward the mansion.
“Your husband.”
My heart stumbled.
Inside the envelope was a photograph of me sleeping on the sofa, taken months earlier, and a handwritten note in Vincent's unmistakable script.
If Claire ever decides to leave, find out who convinced her.
I stared at the words.
May you like
He had imagined my departure long before I had found the courage to make it real.
And he had already decided that it could not possibly be my own choice.
