Chapter 2 - THE PAPER TRAIL OF LIES
The cab ride back to our brownstone in Lincoln Park was a silent blur.
Maya kept staring out the window, occasionally pressing her little nose against the cold glass, while Leo squeezed my fingers tightly. Kids are perceptive; they didn't know who Luca Moretti was, but they knew the man had shaken their mother to her core.
"Mommy," Leo asked softly as I unlocked our heavy front door, "is that man going to come back?"
I knelt down on the hardwood floor of our entryway, pulling both of them into a tight, warm hug. I breathed in the scent of baby shampoo and strawberry soap—the sweet, pure scent of the world I had built without a single dime of Moretti money.
"No, baby," I lied gently, kissing the top of Leo’s dark head. "He was just an old friend from a long time ago. Everything is okay. Why don't you guys go upstairs and show Mrs. Gable the drawings you made?"
Once our nanny had taken the kids up to the playroom, I walked into my study, closed the door, and sank into my desk chair. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely open my laptop.
Five years ago, I didn't hide the twins out of malice.
When I left Chicago, I moved to Colorado to restart my life. Three weeks later, a doctor in Denver confirmed I was seven weeks pregnant with twins. My first instinct—my desperate, foolish, loving instinct—was to call Luca. I had grabbed my phone, dialed his personal line, and waited.
An assistant had answered. When I asked for Luca, he handed the phone to Evelyn Shaw—who was already living in his house as his chief communications manager before they even married.
Evelyn’s words that day had been etched into my memory in acid: “Nia, stop calling. Luca has moved on. If you're going to try the classic fake pregnancy play to extract a settlement, don't bother. His lawyers have already drafted a restraining order if you contact him again.”
I had hung up the phone and never called back. I had buried my pride, worked eighty hours a week writing code, saved every penny, and raised my babies alone. I never asked for child support. I never put his name on the birth certificates.
Now, my laptop screen chimed with an urgent news alert from the Chicago Business Journal.
MORETTI GLOBAL STOCK FLICKERS AS CEO LEAVES CHARITY LUNCHEON ABRUPTLY.
My phone began to ring. It was an unlisted number.
I stared at it as it vibrated against the dark wood of my desk. Three rings. Four. Five.
I picked it up. I didn't say hello.
"Why?" Luca’s voice came through the speaker. He was inside a moving car; I could hear the dull roar of a high-performance engine in the background. He sounded like a man drowning. "Why didn't you tell me, Nia? Why let me live five years believing I had no one? Believing you were gone?"
"Because you didn't want me, Luca," I said, keeping my tone as cold as winter ice. "You stood in our kitchen on a Tuesday night, looked me in the eye, and told me you didn't love me anymore. You let your friends, your board, and your family whisper that I was barren, that I was dragging down the great Moretti bloodline, and you did nothing to defend me."
"I was an idiot!" he roared through the phone, the raw violence of his regret vibrating through the speaker. "I was blind, I was surrounded by snakes, I was terrified—"
"You were selfish," I corrected him. "You wanted a trophy life, and you thought I was holding you back. You got your polished life, Luca. You got Evelyn. You got your skyscrapers. Leave my children out of it."
"They are MY children too!" he yelled, his breath heavy and jagged. "I saw them, Nia! You can't deny it! I saw my son! I saw my daughter! Do you have any idea what it felt like to stand there and realize I missed their first steps? Their first words? Five years of their lives because you kept them hidden?!"
"I called you," I snapped, tears of old, toxic rage finally spilling over my eyelashes. "Six weeks after I left! I called your house, Luca! And your pristine new girlfriend told me that if I tried to claim I was pregnant, your legal team would destroy me for harassment!"
The line went completely dead for four long, agonizing seconds.
"What?" Luca whispered, the anger instantly draining out of his voice, replaced by a horrifying, hollow dread. "What did you just say?"
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"Ask your wife, Luca," I said softly. "And then lose this number."
I hung up the phone, pulled out the SIM card, and snapped it in two.
