Chapter 4 - The House of GhostsFour weeks passed.
The divorce proceedings moved forward with ruthless, unstoppable efficiency. With the forensic evidence of Vanessa’s embezzlement and my primary equity share in the holding trust, Marcus secured a complete corporate separation.
I bought a beautiful, light-filled brownstone in Brooklyn, opening my own independent design firm—the business I had put on hold seven years ago when I married Vincent.
Meanwhile, Vincent’s world had collapsed into a silent, suffocating nightmare.
He stopped attending society galas. He refused to meet with the press. He fired three replacement assistants within a week because none of them were allowed to touch his private schedule. Every evening at 8:00 PM, the man who used to command multi-million-dollar shipping deals sat alone in the dark living room of his Beacon Hill penthouse, staring at the empty couch where I used to sit.
On a rainy Tuesday night in late October, my phone rang.
It was the building manager of our old Beacon Hill residence.
"Mrs. Moretti... I apologize for calling you," the manager said nervously. "But Mr. Moretti has been in the penthouse for three days. He hasn't left for the office. He isn't answering his personal security detail, and the staff is concerned."
I closed my laptop, looking out at the rain over Brooklyn.
I didn't owe Vincent a single second of my life. But I knew that if I didn't close this chapter with my own hands, the ghost of my past would continue to linger.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said.
When I unlocked the front door of the penthouse, the air inside was cold and heavy. The fresh flowers were gone, replaced by the faint, stale scent of rain and old whiskey.
I walked into the master suite.
Vincent was sitting on the floor beside the bed, his back resting against the nightstand, an empty glass held loosely in his hand. He wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark hair unkempt, his face lined with deep, hollow exhaustion.
Tucked in his lap was my old leather journal—the one detailing three years of his neglect.
When he heard my heels against the hardwood, he slowly raised his head. His gray eyes caught mine, and for a second, a flicker of wild, desperate hope lit up his hollow face.
"Claire...?" he rasped out, his voice rough and dry. "You... you came home?"
"I'm not home, Vincent," I said softly, standing five feet away from him near the vanity. "I came to make sure you were alive so my legal team can finalize the property deeds tomorrow."
The faint light in his eyes vanished, replaced by a quiet, agonizing sorrow.
He reached out his hand, gently touching the leather cover of the journal.
"I read every page, Claire," Vincent whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks, pooling at his jawline. "I read every single entry. Every time you waited for me... every cake you threw away... every anniversary I missed because of her."
He looked up at me, his chest heaving with ragged, choking sobs.
"I killed our baby, didn't I?" he wept, covering his face with his calloused hands. "If I had answered your call... if I had brought you to the hospital myself... if I hadn't been so obsessed with my stupid, meaningless schedule..."
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I looked down at the man who had broken my heart, feeling no anger left inside me—only a deep, quiet sadness for the life we could have built if he had chosen to be a husband instead of a CEO.
"You didn't cause the accident, Vincent," I said softly, my voice calm and absolute. "But you chose not to be there when I needed you most. And that is a choice you have to live with."
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