Chapter 2 - The Shadows of Brooklyn Heights
My apartment on Pierrepont Street was small, warm, and quiet. It was the top floor of an old brownstone, featuring exposed brick, a narrow kitchenette, and a balcony that offered a distant view of the Manhattan skyline across the East River.
It was a far cry from the twenty-thousand-square-foot penthouse on Park Avenue where I had spent three years playing the dutiful, invisible wife.
I kicked off my boots, hung my coat, and sat on the edge of my bed. I pulled out the ultrasound photos, tracing the outline of the tiny profile with my thumb.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen. Unknown Number.
I declined it.
Two seconds later, it rang again. I declined it again and turned off the device entirely. I knew how Adrian operated. He had a security team capable of tracking cell tower pings within ninety seconds. If he hadn't already found my address, it was only a matter of hours.
I made myself a mug of warm chamomile tea and sat by the window.
Out on the street, the autumn wind rustled the yellow leaves of the Ginkgo trees. It was 6:00 PM. The streetlights flickered to life one by one.
Then, a black Maybach pulled up to the curb directly beneath my window.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The driver's door opened, and Harrison—Adrian's head chauffeur—stepped out, holding a massive black umbrella. He opened the rear door.
Adrian stepped onto the sidewalk.
He had changed out of his suit jacket into a dark cashmere coat. He looked up at my fourth-floor window. Even across fifty feet of darkness and glass, I felt the shear intensity of his gaze locking onto mine. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked consumed.
A moment later, the doorbell to my brownstone buzzed.
I didn't answer it.
It buzzed again. Three long, deliberate pulses.
Then my landlady’s voice echoed up the intercom speaker from the ground floor entrance. "Claire, dear? There’s a very dressed-up gentleman down here who says he’s your husband? He has a legal team with him..."
I closed my eyes, letting out a ragged sigh. I grabbed my cardigan, walked down the carpeted stairs, and opened the heavy mahogany front door.
Adrian stood on the brownstone stoop. Behind him, parked along the quiet residential street, were three identical black SUVs. Marco Bellini stood near the lead vehicle, holding a leather briefcase, while four suit-clad security guards maintained a discreet perimeter around the sidewalk.
"You brought a private army to my brownstone, Adrian?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest.
"You turned off your phone," Adrian replied. His voice was calm, but his knuckles were white as he clutched the silver head of his umbrella. "I had to ensure you arrived home safely."
"I am safe. I was having tea before you turned my street into a crime scene."
Adrian took a step up the stoop, bringing him onto my level. The familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood, dark cedar, and rain—drifted over me, evoking a painful wave of sensory memories.
"Let me in, Claire," he said softly. "Please."
The word please sounded strange coming from his mouth. In three years of marriage, Adrian Moretti had never begged for anything. He commanded. He negotiated. He conquered.
"No," I said firmly. "We are divorced, Adrian. The judge signed the papers sixty-three days ago. You have no legal right to step inside my home."
"I have a right to know about my child," he insisted, his gray eyes darkening. "Where are you getting your care? Who is your doctor? Why are you living in a four-story walk-up when you are carrying a baby?!"
"I like the stairs. It keeps me healthy."
"Claire!" He took another step forward, his broad frame crowding the doorway, blocking out the streetlights behind him. "Do not do this. Do not treat this like a game."
"A game?" I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "You think this is a game to me? For three years, Adrian, I sat in your penthouse while you worked eighty hours a week. I attended your corporate galas as a arm-decor, smiling while your colleagues whispered that I was just a temporary placeholder until Vanessa Russo came back from Europe! I listened to you say her name when you thought I was asleep!"
Adrian froze. His face went completely pale. "Claire... what are you talking about?"
"The night before you asked for a divorce," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "You sat in your study drinking scotch, looking at a photograph of Vanessa. And the next morning, you told me we should end things. You didn't want me, Adrian. You wanted your past. So do not come to my doorstep now pretending you care about this baby!"
I tried to slam the door, but Adrian’s hand shot out, catching the heavy oak frame before it could latch.
"I don't care about Vanessa," Adrian growled, his voice vibrating with a sudden, violent intensity. "I haven't cared about Vanessa in five years!"
"Then why were you at the hospital with her today?!" I screamed.
Silence fell over the stoop.
The rain began to fall harder, tapping against the black fabric of his umbrella. Adrian stared at me, his mouth slightly open, the realization slowly dawning on his face.
"You think..." Adrian breathed, stepping fully onto the top step, forcing me to step back into the entry hall as he closed the door behind him. "You think I brought Vanessa to New York for myself?"
"Marco had her medical file!" I snapped, backing away toward the stairs.
"Because her father sold thirty percent of Russo Enterprises to a hostile syndicate in Chicago!" Adrian shouted, stepping after me, his umbrella dripping water onto the entryway rug. "Vanessa came to me because she was dying of an autoimmune disorder and needed my medical legal team to protect her family's trust before her brothers liquidated it! That is why I was at the hospital, Claire! I was signing her medical guardianship papers so her family couldn't starve her out!"
I stopped on the bottom step of the staircase, staring at him in utter shock.
Adrian took three heavy steps toward me, dropping his umbrella onto the floor. He stopped right in front of me, looking up into my face, his chest heaving under his coat.
"I asked for a divorce," Adrian whispered, his eyes shining with a dark, painful truth, "because my uncle’s faction was threatening to launch a federal indictment against Moretti Capital. I knew if they pulled my financial records, they would target you. I spent six months liquidating my private holdings to ensure you received twenty million dollars in the settlement so you would be safe if I went to prison!"
My breath caught in my throat. The world around me felt as if it were spinning out of control.
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"You... you divorced me... to protect me?" I stammered.
"I divorced you because I was a coward who didn't know how to tell his wife that he loved her more than his own life," Adrian confessed, his voice breaking. He reached out, his big, warm hand gently resting over the curve of my stomach. "And now... you tell me I’m going to be a father."
