Chapter 7

The room was still dark when I opened my laptop. 4:47 AM. Sleep had become a stranger these past few days. I typed in the search bar: "early pregnancy symptoms." Incognito mode—some habits die hard.

Three pregnancy tests sat lined up on my bathroom counter. I'd driven across the city before dawn, stopping at different pharmacies, not wanting to face the same cashier twice. First Response. Clear Blue. EPT. All positive. The empty boxes scattered across the marble told a story I wasn't ready to read.

My phone lit up. Dante.

"Hey." His voice was soft, warm—a tone I was starting to recognize as just for me. "Want to grab breakfast?"

I pressed my forehead against the cool bathroom mirror. "Can't. Migraine."

"Do you need anything?"

"No, I just..." I swallowed. "I need to sleep it off."

He was quiet for a moment. "Call me if you change your mind."

The OB-GYN's waiting room felt too bright, too real. Pale green walls. Black and white photographs of newborns. A couple sat across from me—her hand resting on her belly, his thumb absently rubbing her wedding ring. The intimacy of their quiet smiles made my chest ache.

I stared at my intake forms until the letters blurred. Name. Date of birth. Last period. Each answer felt like a confession.

"Mrs. Moretti?"

The name hit like a slap. "Ms. Caldwell," I corrected, following the nurse down the hallway. The paper gown crinkled as I changed, the sound too loud in the quiet room.

Dr. Chen's office was exactly as I remembered. Five years, and nothing had changed except me.

"This will be cold," she warned, applying the ultrasound gel.

I fixed my eyes on the ceiling, counting tiles until—

The sound filled the room. Quick. Strong. Impossible to ignore.

"There's your baby." Dr. Chen turned the monitor. "Perfect heartbeat."

The image was grey and blurry, barely the size of a grape. But that heartbeat. God, that heartbeat.

"You're measuring eight weeks." Her voice was gentle. "Which puts conception—"

"Mid-June." The night before I found Luca with Evelyn. Before everything fell apart.

Tears slid down my temples into my hair. Dr. Chen quietly handed me tissues, giving me a moment to collect myself.

"I'll write you a prescription for prenatal vitamins." She paused. "Do you have any questions?"

Only about a thousand.

In my car, the tears came harder. Eight weeks. Luca's child. The timing was a cruel joke.

A tap on my window made me straighten instinctively, years of boardroom training kicking in. Louise stood there, one hand raised against the glass. Without her usual armor of sharp smiles and sharper words, she looked almost human.

I hesitated, tissue still in hand. Louise's presence was never accidental.

She tapped again, then spoke through the glass. "You look like hell, darling."

I could drive away. Should drive away. Instead, I lowered the window an inch. "What do you want, Louise?"

"To buy you coffee." She glanced at my tear-stained face, then at the medical building behind us. Understanding flickered in her eyes. "Or tea, if you prefer."

I studied her expression, looking for the trap. "Why?"

"Because you're sitting in a parking garage crying, and contrary to popular belief, I do occasionally demonstrate basic human decency." She stepped back, giving me space. "Come on. I know a quiet place."

The choice stretched between us. Louise was dangerous—I'd seen how she wielded information like a blade. But she was also the only person who truly knew what it meant to be married to a Moretti man.

"Fine." I grabbed my purse. "But not here."

She nodded, understanding perfectly. "There's a place in Tribeca. Very private. Very expensive. No one will bother us."

I followed her Porsche through morning traffic, keeping one car between us. Old habits. The café was exactly as promised—discrete tables spaced far apart, soft lighting, waitstaff trained in the art of selective blindness.

Louise chose a corner table with clear sightlines to all exits. I noticed she positioned herself so she could watch the door while I faced the wall. Another small power play.

"Wine?" she offered, already signaling the waiter.

"Water."

Her lips curved slightly as she ordered a Bordeaux. When the waiter left, she studied me over the rim of her water glass. "How far along?"

I didn't bother denying it. "What makes you think—"

"Please." She set her glass down. "I've been there. The morning appointments. The crying in parking garages. The way you're holding yourself like every movement might make you sick." Her eyes dropped to my untouched water. "Eight weeks?"

The accuracy of her guess made me tense. "You're awfully observant."

"I was married to Dante for three years. Observation is survival." She accepted her wine from the waiter, waited until he was out of earshot. "Have you told him?"

"That's none of your business."

"No?" She took a measured sip. "What if I told you he already knows?"

I kept my face neutral, but my mind raced. "And how would he know that?"

"Because Dante knows everything. It's what he does." She leaned forward slightly. "Did you really think he wouldn't have someone watching you? Especially after what happened with Luca?"

"If you're trying to warn me about surveillance, you're a bit late."

"Oh, honey." Her smile held something almost like pity. "I'm trying to warn you about so much more than that." She traced her finger around the rim of her wine glass. "Ask him about Monaco."

"Why? What's in Monaco?"

"The better question is: what happened there two years ago?" She glanced at her watch—Cartier, vintage, probably worth more than most cars. "But you won't believe it coming from me. Ask him yourself. Watch his eyes when you do."

"Why are you really telling me this?"

"Because despite what Dante thinks, I'm not the villain in his story." Something raw flickered across her face. "And because someone should tell you what you're really getting into. Before it's too late."

I sat back, processing. "And I'm supposed to believe you're doing this out of kindness?"

"Believe what you want. But remember this conversation when you start noticing things. The calls he takes in other rooms. The meetings that run late. The way he'll tell you just enough truth to hide the lies." She finished her wine. "I'm not your enemy, Vivian. I might be the only person who understands exactly what you're walking into."

"Or you might be trying to manipulate me because you want him back."

She laughed—a real laugh, surprising us both. "God, no. That ship sailed, sank, and is currently rusting at the bottom of the Mediterranean." She stood, dropping bills on the table. "But he was my husband once. And there are things I wish someone had told me before I signed those papers."

She paused, adjusting her scarf. "Whatever you decide to do about the baby, be careful. The Morettis don't let go of their own easily. And like it or not, that child will be a Moretti."

I watched her leave, her words settling like stones in my stomach. The truth was there, somewhere between her warnings and her agenda. The question was: how much time did I have to figure it out?

The drive to Dante's penthouse was a blur. The security guard recognized me, waving me through without question.

I found him in his home office, tie discarded, sleeves rolled up. He looked tired in a way he never allowed in public. When he saw me in the doorway, something in his expression shifted.

"Vivian." Just my name, but it held so much.

"We need to talk." My voice shook.

He stood slowly, and I saw it in his eyes—he already knew. The only question was how long he'd known, and what it meant for us now.