Chapter 12

Moonlight spilled across Dante's desk, turning everything silver-edged and strange. Midnight, and I wasn't supposed to be here. The house felt different at this hour—too quiet, too empty. But his words from earlier kept echoing: "She can't know yet."

His office smelled of him—expensive cologne and old books. The built-in shelves held volumes of corporate law, family photos I'd never seen before, a single photo frame turned face-down. Everything else stood with military precision.

The desk drawer slid open silently. Private letters. Bank statements. A folder marked "River Incident - 2015." My hands shook slightly as I opened it.

Inside: a police report about the attack. Medical records from his hospital stay. But something was off about the dates. The investigation had begun before the attack happened.

The laptop sat closed beside the folder. I'd watched him work on it countless times, fingers moving across keys, screen angled away. Always careful. Always protected. Whatever was happening with Louise, whatever he was hiding about Monaco—the answers would be in there.

The power button glowed blue. One press, and the login screen appeared.

His birthday first: 05121984. Access denied.

The drawer held more folders. Personal information, background checks. His mother's maiden name caught my eye.

SophiaMor. Wrong again.

I sat back, studying the office. Everything here was deliberate, chosen with purpose. The view of the river from his window. The single photo face-down. The folder about the night I'd saved him.

My fingers returned to the keyboard. The night that had started everything. The year he'd been watching, waiting.

Vivian2015

The screen unlocked.

I stared at the desktop, my fingers still hovering over the keys. My name. The year I'd saved him. All this time, he'd been typing it daily, hourly maybe. How many times had I watched his fingers move across these keys, not knowing they were spelling out my name?

Something twisted in my chest. He'd been carrying me with him like this, secretly, for years. Even during his marriage to Louise. Even while watching me with Luca. My name, hidden behind asterisks, guarding his secrets.

The intimacy of it felt worse somehow than if he'd used something impersonal. This wasn't just calculation—this was obsession dressed as devotion.

Folders filled the desktop, each labeled with clinical precision. Acquisitions. Mergers. Personnel. One caught my eye: Project Revival.

The first document was dated six years ago. Before Luca's betrayal. Before my divorce. Before everything.

"Strategic acquisition requires careful positioning," the memo read. "Target company vulnerable through personal connections. Key contact: Vivian Caldwell (Moretti). Position: Wife of CEO."

My hands felt cold. I clicked another file.

Meeting minutes. Dante's voice captured in stark black and white: "Her position provides unique access. When Luca inevitably self-destructs, she'll be the perfect entry point."

More documents. More revelations.

"Asset shows consistent pattern of loyalty. Can be leveraged through emotional manipulation."

"Security footage confirms initial contact. River incident provides foundation for trust."

A video file. Grainy nighttime footage showing a car stopping by the river. A woman—me—diving in. But the angle was wrong. Too perfect. Like someone had been waiting, watching.

I clicked through emails: "The wife is the perfect entry point." "Her emotional state makes her malleable." "Continue monitoring. Await optimal moment."

Photos appeared. Me at charity events. Board meetings. Private moments I thought had been mine alone. Years of surveillance, all leading to this moment.

The laptop closed with a soft click. Everything inside me felt hollow.

Morning came too quickly. The St. Regis ballroom buzzed with investor chatter. I watched Dante work the room, seeing him clearly for the first time.

The way his smile shifted subtly for each person. How his hand gestures emphasized key points. The perfect timing of his laughs. A performance I'd mistaken for charm.

"The coffee here never improves."

I turned to find an older man beside me, studying the contents of his cup with disappointment. His suit was expensive but outdated, the kind worn by old money who didn't need to impress anyone.

"Though the view's gotten better over the years." He nodded toward the window. "I remember when this was all construction sites. Sophia used to complain about the cranes ruining her photos."

"You knew Sophia?"

"Twenty years on the board with Giuseppe Moretti." He set his cup down. "Hard not to know the whole family. Watched those boys grow up. Dante was always the quiet one. Watching. Planning."

Something in his tone made me look closer. Grey hair, wire-rimmed glasses, but his eyes were sharp.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think we've been introduced."

"Harold Bishop." He smiled slightly. "Though these days they mostly call me that old fossil from the original board. The one who asks too many questions."

"About what?"

"Oh, different things. Market strategies. Merger details." He paused. "The Monaco incident."

My coffee cup stilled halfway to my lips.

"Interesting thing about Monaco," he continued, his voice low. "Everyone remembers the deal. Record-breaking numbers. Beautiful yachts. Perfect photos for the press." His eyes met mine. "Nobody talks about the girl."

"What girl?"

"You should ask him." He glanced across the room at Dante, who was deep in conversation with Chinese investors. "About the Monaco deal. About what happened to her. About why Louise really left."

He straightened his jacket, already turning away. "Nice talking with you, Ms. Caldwell. Do be careful with those morning sickness remedies. Some things that seem helpful can be quite dangerous."

I watched him disappear into the crowd, his words settling like stones in my stomach.

Later, at home, Dante found me in the kitchen.

"You barely ate at breakfast," he said, reaching for my hand.

I kept my movements natural, my face neutral. "Just tired."

"The baby—"

"Is fine." I stepped back. "Like I said, I'm tired."

His hand caught my wrist. Gentle but firm. Just like Luca's had been, in the beginning.

"Vivian." The concern in his voice would have fooled me yesterday. "Talk to me."

"Tomorrow." I managed a slight smile. "I just need sleep."

In bed, I lay awake, remembering. How Luca's control had started. Small touches. Soft words. Careful lies wrapped in concern.

Different Moretti. Same game.