Chapter 5 - THE SON WHO WAS NEVER QUESTIONED
Vincent stood motionless, holding the photograph of Sophia outside the fertility clinic.
For seven years, Lucas had been the center of his world.
The boy he'd chosen over Emily.
The child his father had celebrated as the future of the Moretti family.
Now one photograph threatened to undo everything.
“Don't jump to conclusions,” I said.
Vincent looked at me sharply.
“You think I want this to be true?”
“No. And Lucas doesn't deserve to become collateral damage because adults are keeping secrets.”
He lowered the photograph.
For a moment, anger gave way to shame.
“You're right.”
Madison examined the attached date.
“This could mean several things. Fertility treatment. A medical consultation. Someone else receiving treatment. It proves nothing by itself.”
Vincent nodded.
But I could see the question taking hold.
He had abandoned his daughter because Sophia was delivering what everyone called his heir.
What would happen if that justification disappeared?
I hoped he wouldn't take his pain out on the little boy.
“Whatever you discover,” I told him, “Lucas is still a child who loves you.”
Vincent stared at the photograph.
“I've raised him since his first breath.”
“Then act like his father.”
He closed the folder.
“I will.”
The following morning, I visited my parents.
Madison accompanied me.
Vincent remained at his office, reviewing records with an independent forensic accountant.
I hadn't entered the Bennett family home in seven years.
My mother opened the door wearing a cream cardigan and pearls.
For one extraordinary second, she looked pleased.
“Claire.”
Then she saw Madison.
Her expression changed.
“What's happened?”
I stepped inside.
“We need to talk about three million dollars.”
My mother caught the edge of the doorway.
From the living room, my father appeared.
He looked older.
His hair was thinner, and he moved more carefully.
But his familiar habit of avoiding uncomfortable conversations hadn't changed.
“Claire,” he said. “Why don't we all sit down?”
“No.”
I placed a copy of the payment record on the hall table.
“Tell me why Carlo Moretti paid you this money after Emily was born.”
My mother stared at it.
My father closed his eyes.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
“You knew.”
“Claire,” my father began, “things were complicated.”
“Was Emily a complication?”
My mother shook her head.
“We were trying to protect you.”
“From my newborn daughter?”
“From Carlo.”
I stared at her.
She looked toward the window.
“Carlo came to us after you left Vincent. He said the Moretti family would never allow its rightful heir to grow up outside Chicago.”
“Rightful heir,” I repeated.
“Emily.”
My mother nodded.
“He said he could make your life very difficult.”
“Then why take his money?”
My father spoke.
“Because he offered it as part of a settlement. We believed accepting it would make him leave you alone.”
Madison folded her arms.
“Did you have a written agreement releasing custody claims?”
My parents exchanged a glance.
“No,” my father admitted.
Madison's expression hardened.
“Then what exactly did you buy with three million dollars?”
Silence.
My mother began to cry.
I had seen her cry many times.
When Sophia didn't get a part in a school play.
When my father forgot their anniversary.
When neighbors criticized her garden.
But she'd never shed a tear for me in the delivery room.
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
My father finally sat down.
“Carlo wanted us to help establish that you were emotionally unstable after childbirth.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“And you agreed?”
“No,” he said quickly.
My mother looked away.
I turned toward her.
“Mom?”
She whispered, “I signed an affidavit.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I asked, “What did it say?”
“That you were depressed. Isolated. Refusing family support.”
“I was abandoned.”
“I know.”
“I had just given birth!”
My mother covered her face.
“I know.”
I stepped backward.
For years, I'd wondered why my mother never visited Emily.
Now I understood.
She couldn't face the child she'd helped endanger.
Madison reached for my arm.
“Claire, we should leave.”
But I wasn't finished.
“Did you ever ask whether Emily was safe?”
My father looked ashamed.
“We received reports.”
I stopped.
“What reports?”
My mother went rigid.
My father opened a drawer.
Inside was a thick envelope.
Photographs.
School pictures.
A photograph of Emily riding a bicycle.
Another of her sitting on our porch with a stuffed rabbit.
My heart began pounding.
“These were taken near our home.”
My father nodded miserably.
“Carlo's people sent them.”
“But Carlo died five years ago.”
My mother whispered, “They kept coming.”
Madison immediately examined the envelopes.
Some had been mailed recently.
One was dated just three months earlier.
Someone had been watching Emily long after Carlo's death.
“Who sent them?” Madison demanded.
My father shook his head.
“I don't know. They arrived without return addresses.”
I looked at the newest photograph.
Emily stood outside her school holding a science project.
On the back was written:
She still belongs to the family.
My hands trembled.
Madison took the photograph.
“We're preserving these.”
My mother stepped toward me.
“Claire, please understand. We thought if we stayed quiet, nobody would hurt you.”
“You were the people who hurt me.”
She stopped.
I left without looking back.
Outside, Madison helped me into the car.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “We need to identify whoever sent those pictures.”
I nodded.
“And keep Emily out of Chicago until we do.”
Before we could leave, my father came running down the driveway.
He was carrying a small wooden box.
“Claire!”
I lowered the window.
He held out the box.
“Carlo gave this to us the day we signed the settlement.”
I looked at it.
“What is it?”
“He said we should never open it unless Vincent discovered the truth.”
Madison took it.
Inside was an old gold pocket watch.
Carlo's initials were engraved on the back.
Beneath the watch lay a folded piece of paper.
A handwritten list of dates.
Each date corresponded to a major transfer from the Moretti family trust.
Beside several entries was the same name.
A. REYNOLDS.
Sophia's surname.
But the first name wasn't Sophia.
I looked up.
“Who is Adrian Reynolds?”
May you like
My father turned pale.
“That's the man Sophia was secretly married to before Vincent.”
