Chapter 5 - THE LIE THAT ALMOST STOLE MY DAUGHTERFor seven years, Claire Bennett had imagined what she would say if Vincent Moretti ever questioned whether Isabella was his child.
She had imagined screaming.
She had imagined hanging up.
She had imagined telling him that he had surrendered the right to ask questions the moment he abandoned them.
But she had never imagined that her own father would be the one planting doubt.
"What medical report?" she asked.
Vincent hesitated.
"He brought a copy of a fertility assessment."
Claire stared at the wall.
"Yours?"
"Yes."
"What did it say?"
"That I couldn't have fathered a child during the period when Isabella was conceived."
A bitter laugh escaped her.
"Interesting."
"Claire—"
"Did that report also explain how Sophia got pregnant with Alessandro?"
Silence.
"Because unless your son was delivered by divine intervention, there's a fairly obvious problem with that story."
Vincent exhaled.
"I know."
"Then why are we talking about it?"
"Because your father didn't want me to know Isabella existed as my daughter."
Claire's blood chilled.
"He knew you knew about her when she was born."
"Yes. But he says the child wasn't mine and that you deliberately kept it from me."
Claire closed her eyes.
Her father was trying to rewrite history.
He had watched Vincent leave her hospital room.
He had seen the baby afterward.
And he'd known exactly why she'd disappeared.
"I want you to listen carefully," Claire said.
"I'm listening."
"Isabella is your biological daughter. You knew I was pregnant. You knew when she was born. I sent you her photograph."
"I remember."
"You made no attempt to visit her. You made no meaningful attempt to know her. Don't let my father's lies turn your choices into mine."
Vincent's voice cracked.
"I'm not trying to do that."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
A long pause followed.
"Something I should have done seven years ago."
"What's that?"
"Find out who has been lying to both of us."
The fertility report turned out to be a forgery.
It took Evelyn Shaw less than twenty-four hours to establish that the document wasn't issued by the clinic listed on its letterhead.
The doctor's signature had been copied.
The patient reference number belonged to an unrelated file.
And the report had been created only eleven days earlier.
But the discovery raised a more troubling question.
Why was Richard Reynolds suddenly so desperate to deny Vincent's paternity?
Claire found the answer inside another set of financial records.
Her grandmother's trust agreement included a clause governing inherited beneficial interests.
Any assets remaining in Claire's estate would pass to her lawful descendants.
Isabella was the primary successor.
And if somebody succeeded in discrediting Claire's ownership of the trust, Isabella's future rights might become entangled in years of litigation.
Richard hadn't simply stolen money.
He'd been trying to obscure the true ownership of a fortune.
A fortune he had used as collateral for business ventures now approaching financial collapse.
"He's afraid of Isabella," Claire said.
Evelyn looked up.
"He's afraid of what she represents."
"A legal heir."
"Exactly."
Claire sat motionless.
Her father hadn't wanted Vincent to meet his granddaughter because the reunion could expose a financial fraud.
Suddenly, the threat against Isabella made horrible sense.
At the Moretti mansion, Vincent summoned his longtime attorney, Anthony Bellini.
Anthony had served the family for nearly twenty-five years.
He was sixty-two, immaculately dressed, and accustomed to cleaning up expensive mistakes.
Vincent placed the forged report on his desk.
"Find out who created it."
Anthony adjusted his glasses.
"Of course."
"And obtain independent verification of every major trust transaction connected to Richard Reynolds."
Anthony stopped writing.
"Mr. Moretti, that could become complicated."
"Why?"
"Several of those transactions involve companies tied to the foundation."
Vincent leaned forward.
"Are you telling me my foundation received money that wasn't legally ours?"
Anthony hesitated.
"Some ownership records are disputed."
"Answer the question."
Anthony lowered his eyes.
"It's possible."
Vincent stood.
"How long have you known?"
"Sir—"
"How long?"
"Several years."
Vincent stared at him.
"Several years?"
Anthony's voice trembled.
"I was told Mrs. Bennett had authorized the arrangements."
"Who told you?"
Anthony didn't answer.
Vincent understood.
"Sophia."
"Her father supplied the documentation."
"And you never verified Claire's signature?"
"I relied on the notarized authorization."
Vincent turned toward the windows.
Beyond the glass, Chicago stretched into the distance.
His empire.
His foundation.
His reputation.
He had spent his life believing that power meant controlling everything around him.
Yet he'd allowed the people closest to him to steal from his first wife.
"You're going to cooperate with an independent forensic review," he said.
Anthony nodded.
"And every questionable transfer stops today."
"That could affect several projects."
"Then let them be affected."
"Vincent—"
He turned.
"If my foundation accepted stolen money, we'll return it. If my family participated in fraud, they'll answer for it."
Anthony stared.
"Even Sophia?"
Vincent's expression hardened.
"Especially Sophia."
That night, Alessandro Moretti sat on the staircase outside his mother's bedroom.
At seven years old, he had learned two things about the Moretti household.
Adults spoke differently when they thought children couldn't hear.
And his mother lied whenever she was frightened.
From behind the door, he heard Sophia arguing with Richard.
"Vincent's reviewing the accounts!" she snapped.
Richard answered sharply.
"Then you should have kept that girl away from Chicago."
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Make sure Claire doesn't have the opportunity to embarrass us."
Alessandro hugged his knees.
He didn't understand the money.
He didn't understand the documents.
But he understood one thing.
There was a little girl named Isabella.
And his mother was afraid of her.
The following afternoon, Vincent met Claire in a private conference room at the Grand Aurelia Hotel.
It was the first time they'd stood face-to-face in seven years.
Claire arrived wearing a cream-colored coat over a navy dress.
Her dark hair fell to her shoulders.
There were faint lines beside her eyes that hadn't been there when she left.
She looked older.
Stronger.
And more beautiful than Vincent remembered.
He stood immediately.
"Claire."
She stopped near the doorway.
"Vincent."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then his gaze dropped toward her hands.
He remembered those hands gripping hospital sheets.
He remembered her begging him not to leave.
He remembered walking away anyway.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"I came because of Isabella."
"I know."
Claire placed a folder on the table.
"My attorney has documented the surveillance of my daughter. If anyone connected to your family approaches her without my permission, I'll seek additional legal protection."
Vincent nodded.
"Understood."
"Your wife will not interfere with the award."
"She won't."
"And I want independent security at the event."
"Already arranged."
Claire studied him.
"You're agreeing awfully quickly."
Vincent looked directly at her.
"Because you're right."
She hadn't expected that.
For a moment, her composure slipped.
Then she recovered.
"That doesn't change anything between us."
"I know."
"Good."
Vincent hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
Claire folded her arms.
"What?"
"Was she healthy?"
Claire stared.
"When she was born," he said. "Was Isabella healthy?"
A painful silence filled the room.
Then Claire answered.
"Her heartbeat dropped before delivery. The doctors had to perform an emergency C-section."
Vincent's face drained.
"I didn't know."
"No. You didn't."
"Claire..."
"They told me she might not survive."
He gripped the back of his chair.
"And where was I?"
Claire's voice remained steady.
"Upstairs."
Vincent closed his eyes.
"I remember."
"You were celebrating your son."
He didn't deny it.
"I missed her first breath," he whispered.
Claire looked away.
"And every breath afterward."
Vincent sat slowly.
He had expected anger.
He had expected accusations.
But Claire's quiet words were worse.
Because they were true.
"Can I see her?" he asked.
"At the gala. From the audience."
"Could I speak to her afterward?"
"That depends on her."
He nodded.
"Fair."
Claire started gathering her documents.
Then Vincent reached into his jacket pocket.
He placed a small, worn photograph on the table.
A newborn wrapped in a pink blanket.
Claire froze.
"You kept it?"
"Every day."
She stared at the photograph.
For seven years, she'd assumed he'd thrown it away.
Vincent's voice broke.
"I don't know why I kept it when I wasn't brave enough to come find her."
Claire felt tears sting her eyes.
"Keeping a picture isn't parenting, Vincent."
"I know."
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she said something he'd never forget.
"You weren't just absent from her life. You were the reason I spent years convincing her that she wasn't unwanted."
Vincent lowered his head.
Claire turned to leave.
At the door, she paused.
"She made you something."
He looked up sharply.
"What?"
"A bracelet."
His throat tightened.
"Why?"
Claire swallowed.
"Because unlike the adults in her family, Isabella hasn't learned how to hate people who disappoint her."
Vincent stared at her.
Then she opened the door.
"Don't mistake her kindness for forgiveness."
And she walked away.
That evening, Alessandro approached his father in the library.
"Dad?"
Vincent looked up.
"What's wrong, buddy?"
Alessandro hesitated.
"Do I have a sister?"
Vincent went still.
"Who told you that?"
"I heard Mom."
Vincent set down his papers.
"Come here."
Alessandro climbed onto the sofa beside him.
"Her name is Isabella," Vincent said.
"How old is she?"
"Seven."
"Like me?"
Vincent nodded.
"Almost exactly."
Alessandro thought for a moment.
"Why haven't I met her?"
Vincent swallowed.
"Because I made some bad choices."
"Did she do something wrong?"
"No."
"Did her mom?"
Vincent shook his head.
"No, son."
Alessandro looked down at his hands.
"Mom says she's trying to steal our family."
Vincent's jaw tightened.
"Isabella isn't stealing anything."
"Then can I meet her?"
Vincent looked at his son.
The boy had his mother's blond hair and his father's sharp features.
He was innocent.
Just like Isabella.
"Maybe," Vincent said.
Alessandro smiled.
"I'd like that."
Then his expression became serious.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Mom said something bad might happen if the girl comes to the party."
Vincent's blood went cold.
"What exactly did she say?"
Alessandro hesitated.
"She told Grandpa Richard that they had to make sure the girl never got onstage."
Vincent stood so abruptly that Alessandro flinched.
He immediately knelt.
"Hey. You're not in trouble."
"Are you mad?"
"Not at you."
Vincent kissed his forehead.
"Thank you for telling me."
After Alessandro left, Vincent called Marco DeLuca.
"Find Richard Reynolds."
"Sir?"
"Now."
"And if he's not home?"
Vincent stared toward the dark windows.
"Then find out where he's going."
Three minutes later, Marco called back.
"Mr. Moretti, we have a problem."
"What?"
"Richard Reynolds booked a private flight."
"To where?"
"Canada. Departure tomorrow morning."
Vincent's expression darkened.
"He's running."
"There's something else."
"Tell me."
"He's scheduled a meeting tonight with the manager responsible for the gala's backstage access."
Vincent looked toward the clock.
It was 9:17 p.m.
May you like
The gala was less than twenty-four hours away.
And somewhere in Chicago, a terrified grandfather was preparing one final betrayal.
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