Chapter 5 - The Door He Couldn't Buy Open
The ultrasound at twelve weeks made the pregnancy real in a different way.
My baby's profile appeared on the monitor, a delicate curve of forehead and nose, and the technician pointed to a hand moving near the face.
“Oh,” I whispered. “Hello.”
My mother sat beside me holding a tissue. My father waited in the lobby because he said medical offices had enough nervous people without adding one more.
For a few seconds I was simply a woman meeting her child.
Then the technician asked whether I wanted to send images to anyone else.
My first instinct was to say Vincent.
The fact that I still had that instinct frightened me.
“Not today,” I answered.
On our way home I stopped for a blueberry muffin, ate half of it on a bench, and realized that I hadn't thought about Sophia for nearly an hour. It felt like learning to breathe after being underwater.
Back in Chicago, Vincent began attending individual therapy. Elena told me not because I had asked, but because he had stopped demanding that she fix us. He went to work, delegated most of his public appearances, and returned each evening to a penthouse that still looked like a hotel suite after the last guest had left.
He also began reconstructing the last two years of our marriage. A calendar showed twenty-one dinners he'd canceled. There were birthdays he had missed, a weekend in Vermont he'd promised and then forgotten, and two separate evenings when he'd left my father's hospital updates unanswered because Sophia had called about Noah's soccer schedule.
He sent me an email through Rebecca that contained no gifts, no request to meet, and no explanation blaming another woman.
I treated your needs as optional. I turned a child into an excuse for neglecting you. I ignored what you said plainly. Those choices were mine. I am sorry.
I read it once. Then I tucked the printout into a drawer rather than throwing it away.
A few days later, I agreed to a supervised, scheduled conversation by video, mainly to discuss future medical updates and boundaries. Rebecca joined from her office. Vincent appeared on my screen wearing a gray sweater. He looked older than the man who had left our anniversary dinner.
“Claire.” His voice caught.
“Vincent.”
His eyes dropped to my sweater, then rose immediately. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Mostly okay.”
“Is the pregnancy healthy?”
“The doctor says things are progressing normally.”
He closed his eyes. “Thank you for telling me.”
A silence opened between us.
“I would like to come to an appointment,” he said. “If that's something you ever want.”
“Not right now.”
“Okay.”
“You don't get to show up because you suddenly understand what you're losing.”
“I know.”
“No. You know you're frightened. Understanding is what happens after the fear wears off.”
He accepted that without protest, and for a moment I wanted to hate him for making this conversation easier than our marriage had been.
Rebecca guided us through logistics. He could receive basic pregnancy updates through counsel. We would discuss financial responsibilities and eventual parenting arrangements with appropriate professionals. There would be no surprise visits, gifts, or messages through my family.
Before we disconnected, Vincent asked one question.
“Did you ever plan to tell me on our anniversary?”
I looked directly at the camera. “I bought yellow socks.”
His face crumpled.
“I know,” he whispered.
That night I went to bed exhausted, but not defeated. I had made room for the possibility that our child might one day have two loving parents. I had not offered Vincent the role of husband again.
Three days later, a photographer appeared outside the community center construction site. He called my name and shouted, “Is it true the billionaire's wife is pregnant with another man's child?”
My coworkers stopped moving.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
When Mara stepped between us, the man held up his phone. “We have a source close to the Moretti family.”
By noon, a gossip account had published a photograph of me leaving my doctor's office.
Its headline read: MORETTI DIVORCE BOMBSHELL: SECRET BABY, QUESTIONABLE TIMELINE.
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And directly beneath it was a statement attributed to Sophia Reynolds.
I only hope everyone involved tells the truth for the child's sake.
