Chapter 6 - The Unraveling Wall Street
The private dining room at Le Cygne was bathed in warm amber light, the air rich with the scent of truffles and aged Bordeaux.
Vincent Moretti sat at the head of the mahogany table, reviewing a financial ledger tablet with one hand while cutting into a rare steak with the other. Across from him, Vanessa Reed sipped her sparkling water, murmuring data points regarding the upcoming European expansion.
"The German regulatory board is expected to clear the acquisition by Thursday," Vanessa reported smoothly. "I’ve already coordinated with the legal team in Frankfurt to—"
Vincent held up a single finger, cutting her off. His phone, resting face-down beside his water glass, vibrated sharply against the wood.
Frowning, Vincent picked it up. He expected a brief status report from a regional director or a reminder about his eight-fifteen window with Claire. Instead, the notification banner lit up the screen with a preview of text messages.
Vincent unlocked the device. His eyes scanned the first line.
Vincent, I was eight weeks pregnant. The accident caused a miscarriage. We lost our baby today.
The fork slipped from Vincent’s fingers, clattering sharply against the porcelain plate, sending a spray of red jus across the white tablecloth.
Vanessa paused, blinking in surprise. "Mr. Moretti? Is everything alright?"
Vincent didn't answer. His face, usually an unreadable fortress of control, drained of all color. His eyes raced across the remaining lines of the message.
I called because I was scared and needed my husband. But I wasn’t allowed to interrupt your schedule.
You won’t have to worry about that anymore.
I’m leaving. Goodbye.
A cold sweat broke out across Vincent’s temples. The restaurant around him—the clinking glasses, the low murmur of conversation, the refined jazz playing in the background—seemed to recede into a distant, muffled hum.
"Pregnant..." Vincent muttered, his voice barely audible, shaking as he gripped the edges of the phone. "What... what is this?"
He slammed his thumb onto the call button, dialing Claire’s personal number.
“The subscriber you have dialed is currently switched off or out of service. Please try again later...”
"Mr. Moretti?" Vanessa leaned forward, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of genuine concern. "Did something happen at the office?"
"Shut up, Vanessa," Vincent snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden, violent fury that made the nearby sommelier jump.
Vincent stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the parquet floor. He threw a stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table without a second glance, grabbed his tailored overcoat, and bolted out of the restaurant into the chilly autumn night.
He didn't wait for his driver. He unlocked his own Aston Martin parked in the valet bay and sped through the city streets, running yellow lights, driven by a rising panic that felt entirely foreign to him.
Fifteen minutes later, he threw open the heavy double doors of the penthouse.
"Claire!" he shouted into the emptiness.
Silence answered him.
He strode into the master suite, flipping every switch on the wall. The bright lights illuminated a scene that made his heart stall in his chest.
Her side of the walk-in closet was completely bare. The hangers hung empty, clinking softly in the draft. Her cosmetics, her hairbrush, her everyday perfumes—all gone.
He rushed to the bedside table.
There, resting in the center of the dark mahogany, sat his platinum wedding ring. Cold, heavy, and final.
Beside it was a folded piece of heavy linen paper.
Vincent’s hands trembled violently as he picked up the note. He unfolded it, his eyes devouring the precise, elegant handwriting he had ignored for years.
You gave me fifteen minutes a day, Vincent. I’m giving you the rest of your life back.
May you like
Vincent staggered backward, his hip hitting the edge of the dresser. The silence of the penthouse pressed in on him from all sides, heavier and more suffocating than any boardroom defeat, any hostile takeover, any loss he had ever faced in his life.
For the first time in his meticulously managed existence, Vincent Moretti had lost control of everything that truly mattered.
