Chapter 2 - The Storm in the HospitalInside Room 402 of St. Anthony’s Private Hospital in downtown Chicago, the fluorescent lights hummed softly.
Sophia Reynolds lay on a plush hospital bed, wearing a silk gown, her arm hooked up to a saline IV line. Beside her sat Vincent Moretti, his dark hair disheveled, his charcoal suit jacket tossed over a chair, his tattooed fingers running nervously through his hair.
His phone was glued to his ear.
"It went straight to voicemail again!" Vincent roared, slamming his hand flat against the bedside table, making the saline bag rattle on its stand. "Where the hell is she?!"
Sophia reached out her delicate, IV-covered hand, resting her manicured fingers over Vincent's wrist, her eyes filled with gentle, victimized tears.
"Vincent, darling, please calm down," Sophia whimpered softly. "It’s my fault... I shouldn't have posted that photo on Instagram. I didn't know Claire was going to be so immature..."
Vincent didn't look at her. His eyes were glued to his phone screen, where his Instagram feed was blowing up with chaotic, viral fury.
Claire’s comment—Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness—had been screenshotted by three major Chicago social media outlets within ten minutes.
Underneath the post, hundreds of comments from high-society figures, syndicate wives, and business partners were flooding in:
“Did Vincent Moretti’s wife just confirm he’s cheating?!”
“Is this why Moretti missed the anniversary gala at the club?!”
“Look at his face... he abandoned his wife for Sophia Reynolds!”
"Immature?!" Vincent snapped, spinning around to face Sophia, his gray eyes flashing with a dark, terrifying anger that made Sophia pull her hand back instantly. "She dropped my wedding gift into a trash can, Sophia! She took off her wedding ring in front of the entire club parking lot! And now she's turned off her phone!"
"Vincent... she's just trying to get your attention," Sophia insisted, her voice tightening with a subtle, manipulative edge. "She's bluffing. She has no family, no independent income, and nowhere to go. She'll be waiting at the house weeping by morning."
BEEP.
Vincent’s phone chimed with an incoming email notification from a prestigious law firm in downtown Chicago: STERLING & ASSOCIATES AT-LAW.
Vincent tapped the screen frantically.
The formal legal document opened, displaying a bold, red header:
[FORMAL NOTICE OF PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE: CLAIRE MORETTI V. VINCENT MORETTI.]
[ACCOMPANYING MOTION: EMERGENCY ASSET RESTRUCTURING & IMMEDIATE SPOUSAL SEPARATION ORDER.]
Attached to the bottom of the email was a personal note from Arthur Sterling, Chicago’s top divorce litigator:
Mr. Moretti,
My client, Mrs. Claire Moretti, has officially departed the state of Illinois. All communication regarding her whereabouts, property claims, or divorce terms must go through my office.
P.S. Mrs. Moretti suggested you check the back of your wedding frame in the Lake Forest master suite.
Vincent’s phone slipped from his hand, crashing flat onto the linoleum floor.
His face turned a pale, sickly gray under the hospital lights.
May you like
"The wedding frame..." Vincent whispered, his breath catching violently in his chest.
He spun on his heel and sprinted out of the hospital room without saying another word to Sophia, his heavy footsteps echoing into the dark corridor.
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