Chapter 7 - The Child Who Wasn’t His
I called Bianca.
Not Dante.
Bianca.
She answered after three rings.
“Bella?”
“Were you pregnant?”
Silence.
Long enough to become an answer.
“Bianca.”
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
Nora pulled a chair behind me.
I sat.
“Is there a child?”
“No.”
My eyes closed.
“I lost the pregnancy very early.”
Her voice had changed.
No defensiveness.
Only sadness.
“I was six weeks.”
“I see.”
“You didn't know.”
“No.”
“Dante didn't tell you?”
“No.”
She exhaled.
“I thought he had.”
A humorless laugh escaped me.
“He was extremely committed to compartmentalization.”
“Bella…”
“Was it his?”
Another silence.
Then:
“No.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“It wasn't Dante's.”
Across the room Sofia froze.
Nora stared at me.
“Then why did you tell him it was?”
“I didn't.”
I stood.
“The recording—”
“I told him I was pregnant. He assumed.”
My anger sharpened.
“And you let him?”
“For three days.”
“Why?”
“Because I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Losing everything at once.”
Bianca's voice shook.
“There was someone before Dante.”
I listened.
“His name was Adrian. We'd broken up. Then we saw each other once after I started seeing Dante.”
“One time?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dante know?”
“No.”
“So you were cheating on the man who was cheating on his wife.”
A small, broken laugh came through the phone.
“When you put it that way, none of us sound especially impressive.”
“No.”
“I confirmed the dates with my doctor. Dante couldn't have been the father.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What happened when you told him?”
“He ended things.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Four months ago.”
“But you've been together since.”
“No.”
The hotel.
Her hand in his.
The bracelet.
The suite.
“Bianca.”
“He came back two weeks later.”
“Why?”
“I called him.”
She sounded ashamed.
“I'd lost the pregnancy. Adrian didn't want anything to do with me. Dante came because I said I had nobody.”
“And the affair resumed.”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
“No.”
I waited.
“Not for several weeks.”
It mattered.
I hated that it mattered.
Bianca continued.
“Dante kept saying he was going to tell you.”
“But he didn't.”
“No.”
“And eventually you started again.”
“Yes.”
I looked out at the lake.
“How did the bracelet happen?”
“He bought it after the miscarriage.”
Not romance.
Comfort.
Still betrayal.
But different from what I had imagined.
“And this weekend?”
“I told him I wouldn't keep seeing him unless there was a future.”
“So he invented our divorce.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Bella.”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry.”
I believed her.
That did not erase anything.
But I believed her.
“So am I.”
I hung up.
Dante was waiting outside the apartment twenty minutes later.
Sofia had called him.
I let him inside.
Not because I wanted comfort.
Because I wanted answers.
“You thought Bianca was carrying your child.”
His face changed.
“Sofia told you.”
“Yes.”
Dante looked toward the windows.
“Bella—”
“Did you want the baby?”
His jaw tightened.
“Don't lie.”
He met my eyes.
“For several hours, yes.”
The answer went through me cleanly.
Sharp, but clean.
“Several hours?”
“Before I understood what it would mean.”
“Meaning?”
“You.”
I crossed my arms.
“I imagined telling you.”
His voice lowered.
“And I knew it would destroy something in you that had already survived too much.”
My eyes burned.
“You thought about our treatments.”
“Every second.”
“Did you resent me because I couldn't give you a child?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Then why did part of you want hers?”
Dante struggled.
Finally:
“Because for one terrible moment, it felt like getting something back that I'd already mourned.”
Tears came before I could stop them.
Not because I forgave him.
Because I understood.
I had imagined adoption brochures secretly.
Surrogacy agencies.
A life with children that didn't resemble the one we'd planned.
Grief made hypocrites of people sometimes.
“I hated myself immediately,” Dante continued.
“That doesn't change what happened.”
“I know.”
“You stayed with her afterward.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He sat down.
“She lost the pregnancy alone.”
“Because you weren't the father.”
“That didn't make her less alone.”
I stared at him.
There was something almost decent in that.
Which infuriated me.
“You should have helped her as a friend.”
“Yes.”
“Then come home and tell your wife the truth.”
“Yes.”
“You did neither.”
“No.”
His answers came without resistance now.
I wondered whether confession became easier once a life had already collapsed.
I sat across from him.
“Why Bianca?”
He looked surprised.
“I need to understand.”
Dante rubbed his palms together.
“At first?”
“Yes.”
“She didn't know me as your husband.”
I frowned.
“She knew me as Dante Moretti.”
“That sounds worse.”
“To you, I had become the man who missed appointments. The man who couldn't fix what happened with the treatments. The man who came home late.”
His voice was quiet.
“With Bianca, I was still impressive.”
There it was.
Not passion.
Vanity.
“She admired you.”
“Yes.”
“And I knew you.”
“Yes.”
A sad smile touched my mouth.
“That may be the most honest answer you've given me.”
“I think so.”
We sat silently.
Then Dante reached into his jacket.
He placed a document on the table.
“What is that?”
“A financial separation agreement.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because Sofia was right.”
He looked around the apartment.
“Too much of your life is legally attached to mine.”
I opened the document.
The Gold Coast house.
Shared accounts.
Investments.
The hotel stock I'd purchased years ago.
Everything was listed.
“I've instructed my attorneys to separate anything that belongs to you or can reasonably be considered yours.”
I looked up.
“I didn't ask.”
“No.”
“Are you buying forgiveness?”
His expression tightened.
“No.”
“How do I know?”
“You don't.”
At least he understood that.
“I don't want you deciding whether to stay because leaving feels financially complicated.”
Something in me softened despite myself.
Not toward the affair.
Toward the action.
“You're giving me an exit.”
“Yes.”
“And if I use it?”
His eyes reddened.
“Then I use the rest of my life learning not to make love feel like a locked door.”
I looked down at the document.
Then noticed another page.
A deed transfer.
The Lake Shore apartment.
To me.
Entirely.
No conditions.
“You already signed this?”
“Yes.”
“You could have shown me the place yourself.”
“I know.”
“Why didn't you?”
He smiled bitterly.
“Because apparently I was excellent at arranging grand gestures and terrible at having simple conversations.”
That was painfully accurate.
Dante stood.
“I'll go.”
At the door, I stopped him.
“Were you really flying to New York?”
He turned.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Business.”
I almost laughed.
“Actual business?”
“Yes.”
“What business?”
His expression changed.
“The sale of my shipping company.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I've been trying to sell my controlling interest for six months.”
I stared.
That company was the center of his world.
His father's legacy.
The foundation of the Moretti empire.
“Why would you sell it?”
Dante looked at me.
“Because the night you told Nora you didn't like who you were becoming, I heard you.”
My stomach dropped.
“You heard that?”
“You were in the garden.”
I remembered.
The phone call.
The open terrace doors.
“I realized something.”
“What?”
“You weren't the only person you didn't like anymore.”
He opened the door.
May you like
Before leaving, he said quietly:
“I had already started changing my life before I knew whether you'd stay in it.”
