Chapter 10
Six months later.
The sound of crashing waves rolled through the open French doors of a small, sun-drenched cottage overlooking the rugged coastline of Mendocino, California.
The salt air was crisp and sweet, carrying the scent of wild lavender and damp pine needles.
I stood on the wraparound redwood deck, holding a warm mug of chamomile tea, wearing a soft cream knit sweater that stretched comfortably over my heavily swollen belly.
I was eight months pregnant.
My skin had regained its color, my dark hair hung loose around my shoulders, and the sharp, guarded tension that had choked me for three years had dissolved into a quiet, enduring peace.
Under the alias Clara Vance, I had built a simple, beautiful life far away from the toxic social circles of Chicago.
Nora Sterling had performed legal miracles.
The divorce had been finalized in record time, heavily assisted by the mountains of criminal evidence we had held over Vincent's head.
To avoid a federal indictment for fraud and grand larceny, Vincent had signed every single document Nora placed in front of him.
He had relinquished all claims to my father’s trust, surrendered his parental rights unconditionally, and transferred fifty percent of his remaining liquid assets directly into a blind trust established solely for our unborn child.
Sophia Reynolds had not escaped so lightly.
Her public relations agency had filed for bankruptcy within forty-eight hours of the gala.
Disgraced and shunned by every client she had ever represented, she had been forced to surrender the Tennessee property to the court-appointed receiver to pay off her mounting legal fees and civil penalties.
Last I heard through Nora, Sophia was living in a cramped studio apartment in suburban Atlanta, working as an entry-level copywriter under a changed name, her social status completely obliterated.
As for Vincent, his downfall had been swift and absolute.
The Moretti Group had been dissolved and absorbed by rival investment firms.
His name had been stripped from the charitable foundation, and his luxury penthouse had been sold at an auction to satisfy bank liens.
He was still wealthy by average standards, but in the world that mattered to him—the world of power, prestige, and fear—he was a ghost.
A gentle breeze blew across the deck, lifting the hem of my sweater.
I placed my free hand against my stomach, feeling the baby kick with energetic, joyful strength.
A baby girl.
In four weeks, she would enter the world in a quiet seaside hospital surrounded by midwives who knew me only as a kind, private woman who painted watercolor landscapes for the local gallery down the road.
She would grow up with ocean air in her lungs, mud on her shoes, and a mother who would protect her with every breath in her body.
She would never know the cold, calculating cruelty of the Moretti dynasty.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires broke the silence of the morning.
I turned my head toward the long, winding dirt driveway that led from the coastal highway to my cottage.
A local courier van had pulled up near the wooden fence.
The driver, an older man named George who ran the general store in town, stepped out holding a small, brown paper package wrapped in twine.
"Morning, Clara!" George called out with a friendly wave.
"Morning, George," I replied, walking slowly down the deck stairs to meet him at the gate.
"Special delivery for you," George said, handing me the parcel.
"Dropped off at the regional distribution center in Eureka early this morning."
"No return address, but the postage was paid in full."
"Thank you, George," I said, offering him a warm smile.
He tipped his cap, climbed back into his van, and rattled back down the driveway, leaving me standing alone under the towering coastal redwoods.
I looked down at the package.
My new legal name, Clara Vance, was written across the brown paper in sharp, elegant, unmistakably familiar cursive handwriting.
My breath caught in my throat.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Vincent.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I walked back onto the deck, my hands trembling as I set my tea mug on the wooden table.
I pulled the twine loose and tore through the brown paper wrapping.
Inside was a plain white cardboard box.
I lifted the lid.
Sitting inside the box, resting on a bed of tissue paper, was a single, hand-carved wooden toy horse, beautifully crafted from dark cherry wood.
Tucked beneath the horse was an unsigned note written on heavy parchment paper.
I unfolded it with unsteady fingers.
*I promised your father under the oak trees that I would never make you regret marrying me.*
*I failed him, and I failed you.*
*I know you will never let me hold her.*
*I know I do not deserve to hear her name.*
*But an empire means nothing if you aren't there to rule it, Claire.*
*I found you once.*
*I will spend the rest of my life watching from the shadows, making sure no one ever hurts you again.*
*Be happy.*
I lowered the note, my heart racing, and looked up from the porch.
Two hundred yards away, on the crest of the fog-covered coastal ridge overlooking my cottage, a black sedan was parked silently beneath the shadow of the cypress trees.
The windows were completely tinted black.
As I watched, the car’s headlights flickered twice through the coastal mist.
May you like
Then, the sedan turned slowly around on the narrow gravel road and vanished into the gray fog, leaving only the endless sound of the ocean breaking against the rocks below.
I pressed my hand against my stomach, feeling the child move within me, staring at the empty ridge where the car had been.
