Chapter 13 - Sophia's Perfect Little Lie
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I found Sophia at a private art gallery on Michigan Avenue.
She stood beside a sculpture of polished steel, wearing a cream-colored suit and speaking to a group of donors. Her laughter was effortless, her posture perfect, her expression composed enough to convince anyone that the world had never denied her anything.
When she saw me, her smile stiffened.
“Claire. I wondered how long it would take you to come looking for me.”
“I have questions.”
“Then ask them.”
I didn't sit.
“What happened the night my bracelet broke?”
Sophia's expression barely changed.
“I dropped it.”
“You smashed it.”
“Does the distinction matter after three years?”
“It mattered to me.”
She looked toward the donors, then lowered her voice.
“Vincent was angry with you. I was angry with you. We were both young, and you were making everything difficult.”
I stared at her.
“I was struggling with postpartum depression.”
“I know.”
“You knew I was barely sleeping. You knew I was terrified I wasn't a good mother. You knew I needed support.”
Sophia's face hardened.
“And I knew Vincent was miserable.”
“Because I wasn't pretending to be happy?”
“Because he felt like he couldn't reach you.”
The words landed painfully because there had been moments when that was true. I had been so overwhelmed that I couldn't explain what I needed. Some mornings, I had struggled to get out of bed. Other days, I cried without understanding why.
But I had never asked Vincent to be perfect.
I had asked him to be kind.
“You compared yourself to me,” Sophia continued. “You wanted to be the wife who made him feel powerful. You wanted to be the woman who could stand beside him without falling apart.”
“I never wanted to be you.”
“Perhaps not. But you were always afraid you weren't enough.”
I hated that she had found a truth inside the cruelty.
Then I remembered the message.
“What did you tell Vincent that night?”
Sophia looked away.
“Nothing.”
“You're lying.”
She laughed.
“You always did think you could read people because you designed jewelry. You see tiny flaws and imagine they tell you everything.”
I reached into my bag and removed a copy of the letter from Vincent's mother.
Sophia's eyes moved across the page.
For the first time, her composure cracked.
“Where did you get that?”
“It doesn't matter. What matters is that someone believes you know more about the bracelet than you've admitted.”
Sophia looked toward the gallery entrance.
Then she whispered, “I didn't know the bracelet contained anything.”
“What?”
“I swear I didn't know about the hidden message. I only knew Vincent had bought it for me.”
“Why did you break it?”
Her eyes filled with tears, though I couldn't tell whether they were real.
“Because he looked at you.”
I said nothing.
“He had given me the bracelet, but when you came into the room, he watched you as if I wasn't there. You were crying, and he looked guilty. I thought if I destroyed it, he would finally stop feeling responsible for you.”
“You destroyed my mother's last gift because you were jealous.”
“Yes.”
The admission was quiet.
For the first time, I saw something beneath Sophia's vanity: a woman who had spent years believing that if she could make Vincent choose her, she would finally be worth choosing.
It didn't excuse what she had done.
It did explain why she had been so determined to keep me out of his life.
“Did you tell him I had asked you to give it back?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you tell him I begged you not to break it?”
Sophia lowered her eyes.
“No.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were being dramatic. That you had threatened to leave because you couldn't stand seeing me with him.”
I felt sick.
“And Vincent believed you?”
“He wanted to believe me.”
That answer hurt more than I expected.
I turned away.
Sophia caught my arm.
“Claire, wait.”
I looked at her hand.
She released me.
“There's something else,” she said. “The night you left, I went to the house. Vincent had been drinking. He was furious because you wouldn't answer his calls.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he wished he'd married me instead of you.”
“I know.”
“No. You don't know what happened afterward.”
I stared at her.
Sophia swallowed.
“He called me the next morning. He asked me to tell him exactly what I'd said to you about the bracelet. When I told him the truth, he stopped speaking to me.”
“Why?”
“Because he realized I had lied about you. He asked me to help him find you.”
I felt the room tilt.
“You said he never looked for me.”
“I was angry. I told people he had moved on. I wanted you to believe he had forgotten you.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought if you came back, he would choose you again.”
I studied her face.
“Did he ever promise to marry you?”
Sophia's lips trembled.
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you he loved you?”
She looked down.
“Not the way I wanted him to.”
For a moment, I felt no triumph. Only exhaustion.
“You don't get to rewrite what happened,” I said. “You hurt me because you wanted him. Vincent hurt me because he wanted to win an argument. Neither of you gets to turn that into a love story.”
Sophia began to cry.
I left her there.
Outside, I called Rebecca and told her what Sophia had admitted. Rebecca asked whether Sophia would be willing to make a formal statement.
“I don't know,” I said. “But I think she might be frightened enough to tell the truth.”
As I reached the curb, a black car pulled up beside me.
The rear window lowered.
Luca Moretti sat inside.
“Claire,” he said pleasantly. “Get in. We need to talk.”
I stepped back.
“No.”
His smile vanished.
“Then I suggest you listen carefully. Vincent is not the man you think he is.”
“I know exactly who Vincent is.”
“Do you?” Luca leaned forward. “Then ask him why he kept your father's death out of the papers. Ask him what he promised Victor Sloane to protect the company.”
My phone was already recording.
Luca noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“You always were too clever for your own good.”
He lifted a finger, and the driver started the car.
Before the window closed, Luca delivered one final sentence.
“Ask Vincent what he knew before he married you.”
The car disappeared into traffic.
I stood on the sidewalk, my hands shaking.
May you like
Because I had spent three years believing Vincent's worst crime was that he had stopped loving me properly.
Now I was beginning to fear that the truth might be much worse.
