Chapter 2 - THE CRUMBLED MEDICAL BILL
The downtown hotel room was small.
It smelled faintly of old carpet and bleach.
I sat on the edge of the double bed, staring at my hands.
My wrists still bore the pale bruises from the ambulance straps.
My ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache beneath the bandages.
Outside the window, the Chicago rain beat a relentless rhythm against the glass.
My phone lay on the nightstand.
Dead.
I had powered it off the moment I checked in under my maiden name.
For seven years, every minute of my existence had been accounted for by Vincent’s digital calendar.
Now, the silence in the room felt deafening.
It felt like freedom.
And it felt terrifying.
Meanwhile, back at the Lake Forest mansion, the scene was entirely different.
Vincent Moretti stood in our master bedroom.
His expensive wristwatch ticked loudly in the empty space.
He walked over to my side of the walk-in closet.
Empty.
Not a single hanger remained.
Not a single pair of shoes on the racks.
He frowned, a cold furrow forming between his dark brows.
He strode into the hallway and pushed open the door to my nightstand.
My silver wedding ring sat there.
Cold.
Motionless.
Beside it lay my handwritten note.
You gave me fifteen minutes a day, Vincent. I’m giving you the rest of your life back.
He read the words once.
Then twice.
A muscle twitched along his rigid jawline.
“Claire,” he muttered to the empty room.
“Stop playing games.”
He reached into his tailored suit jacket and pulled out his phone.
He dialed my number.
“The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable or out of service.”
His chest heaved.
He called again.
Same automated voice.
Frustration spiked into sudden, sharp panic.
He punched the speed dial for his lead enforcer, Marcus.
“Find her,” Vincent ordered before Marcus could even speak.
“She checked out of her routine. Find her car, find her hotel, find her.”
“Boss, calm down. What happened?” Marcus asked from the other end.
“She left,” Vincent growled, his voice dropping an octave into absolute menace.
“She took her clothes and left her ring.”
Vincent slammed his fist against the mahogany nightstand.
As his hand struck the wood, a crumpled piece of paper slipped from beneath a small tray near the trash bin.
It was a hospital discharge summary.
Vincent bent down slowly.
His long fingers smoothed out the wrinkled paper.
His eyes scanned the medical jargon printed in black ink.
Patient: Claire Bennett Moretti.
Diagnosis: Acute trauma, concussion, sprained ankle, spontaneous abortion secondary to vehicular impact.
Gestational Age: Eight weeks.
The paper slipped from his fingers.
It fluttered softly down onto the bedroom floor.
Vincent staggered backward, his breath catching in his throat.
Eight weeks.
He had walked Vanessa out of the hospital after a routine hormonal checkup while his own wife lay bleeding from a miscarriage.
May you like
His phone buzzed in his palm with an incoming call from Vanessa.
He stared at the screen, his vision swimming with a cold, terrifying realization of what he had destroyed.
