Chapter 2
For three years, Adrian Moretti had believed that waiting was something I would always do.
He was wrong.
By 5:12 in the morning, I was already three states away.
I sat in the back seat of a rented sedan with my suitcase beside me, one hand resting protectively over the barely noticeable curve of my stomach.
Eight weeks.
Eight weeks and one day, according to the doctor.
My baby.
Adrian’s baby.
And for the first time since I had met the most dangerous man in New York, I was making a decision without asking what he wanted.
Rain streaked the window as Manhattan disappeared behind us.
I watched the skyline become smaller until the towers were nothing more than gray shadows beneath the morning clouds.
My phone vibrated.
I didn’t look at it.
It vibrated again.
Then again.
I knew who it was.
Adrian.
He would have found the note by now.
He would have seen the wedding ring.
He would have opened the divorce papers.
And eventually, he would have seen the ultrasound.
I had spent three years imagining what Adrian would do when he finally learned he was going to be a father.
In my imagination, he always smiled.
Sometimes he laughed.
Sometimes he pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead.
But I knew better now.
Adrian Moretti did not react to losing control with tenderness.
He reacted with war.
My phone rang.
I finally glanced at the screen.
Adrian.
I declined the call.
Thirty seconds later, another call came through.
Unknown Number.
I declined that one too.
Then a message appeared.
Adrian: Claire, answer the phone.
I locked the screen.
My driver, an older man named Samuel, glanced at me through the rearview mirror.
“You want me to stop somewhere?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Keep driving.”
He nodded.
I leaned my head against the window.
For the first time in three years, I allowed myself to cry.
Quietly.
Without making a sound.
Because leaving Adrian wasn’t the hardest thing I had ever done.
The hardest thing was accepting that the man I loved had spent three years teaching me that I was easy to hide.
And I had spent three years teaching myself to accept it.
Not anymore.
At 6:03 that morning, Adrian Moretti stood barefoot in the bedroom we had shared for three years, staring at an empty closet.
Half of the closet was mine.
Now it was empty.
His shirts hung untouched.
His suits remained perfectly arranged.
His watches sat in their drawers.
Everything belonging to him was still there.
Everything belonging to me was gone.
He turned slowly toward the bed.
The divorce papers were still on the mattress.
His name was signed.
Mine was signed.
He had signed them himself weeks earlier because I had asked him to review them.
He had assumed they were preliminary.
A possibility.
A threat.
A desperate attempt to make him pay attention.
He hadn’t realized I had already made the decision.
His eyes moved to the white envelope beneath the papers.
He picked it up.
Inside was the ultrasound photograph.
Black and white.
Grainy.
Small.
But unmistakable.
A tiny life.
His fingers stopped moving.
For several seconds, Adrian simply stared.
His security chief, Marcus Hale, stood silently near the bedroom door.
Adrian’s voice was barely audible.
“What is this?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
Adrian looked at him.
“I asked you a question.”
Marcus swallowed.
“An ultrasound.”
“I know what an ultrasound is.”
His eyes dropped back to the photograph.
“How far?”
Marcus hesitated.
“We need to speak to a doctor.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“How far along is she?”
“According to the report?”
“Yes.”
“Eight weeks.”
The room went completely silent.
Adrian looked at the photograph again.
Eight weeks.
He did the calculation automatically.
Eight weeks meant Claire had known for weeks.
She had sat across from him at breakfast.
She had kissed him goodbye.
She had attended meetings.
She had stood ten feet away at the gala while he told an entire ballroom he wasn’t married.
And she had already been carrying his child.
He remembered that night.
He remembered Claire’s face.
He remembered how still she had become.
He had noticed.
He simply hadn’t cared enough to understand.
Adrian’s fingers curled around the photograph.
“Find her.”
“We’re trying.”
“Not good enough.”
“We’ve checked the apartment, her office, her usual places—”
“Find my wife.”
Marcus stared at him.
Adrian’s eyes lifted.
There was something different in them now.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Fear.
“My wife,” Adrian repeated. “Find Claire. Now.”
Marcus immediately reached for his phone.
Adrian looked toward the empty side of the bed.
For three years, Claire had slept beside him.
For three years, she had whispered goodnight even when he was too busy to answer.
For three years, she had waited.
And he had mistaken her patience for permanence.
His phone rang.
Marcus answered.
“Yes?”
A pause.
Then his expression changed.
He covered the phone.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“The car service.”
Adrian turned.
“What about it?”
“She left Manhattan at 5:12.”
“Where?”
“North.”
“How far?”
“We don’t know.”
Adrian walked toward the closet.
He opened the door again.
There was a small wooden box on the upper shelf.
He took it down.
Inside were photographs.
Claire at the courthouse.
Claire laughing at a restaurant.
Claire asleep against his shoulder.
Claire wearing his shirt.
Claire standing beside him on a balcony.
Three years of memories.
Three years of a marriage that existed everywhere except where it mattered most.
At the bottom was one photograph he had forgotten about.
Their wedding day.
They had stood outside the courthouse in the rain.
Claire had been wearing a simple cream dress.
Adrian had been wearing a black suit.
She had smiled at him as if he were the only person in the world.
He had promised her something that day.
“I’ll make this public when it’s safe.”
She had believed him.
Adrian closed his eyes.
“She really left.”
Marcus lowered his phone.
“Yes.”
Adrian looked at the photograph.
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“She didn’t leave.”
May you like
Marcus waited.
“She escaped.”
