Chapter 2 - The Hallway of the Past
The sterile, chemical smell of Manhattan General’s private maternity wing always made my skin crawl. It was a place of high-end luxury, frequented by society wives, politicians' spouses, and elite heiresses who demanded private suites and white-glove medical care. It was also, as I would soon discover, a place where ghosts loved to materialize.
I sat in a plush armchair in the corner of the waiting area, clutching my patient intake clipboard. The morning sun streamed through the expansive arched windows, casting geometric patterns across the polished marble floor.
"Claire Bennett?"
A young nurse with a friendly smile and bright green scrubs popped her head out of the double doors at the end of the hallway.
"Right here," I said, standing up and smoothing down the front of my emerald-green maternity dress.
"Dr. Evans is running just a few minutes behind, but let's get you weighed and measured in Room Four. Right this way."
As I followed the nurse down the corridor, the muted hum of hospital chatter faded. The private wing was exceptionally quiet today. We passed a row of VIP suites, their heavy mahogany doors closed tight.
Then, a voice drifted out from one of the suites—a voice that could freeze boiling water in a fraction of a second.
"I want daily reports from the cardiology team. If her condition fluctuates by even a fraction, I expect to be notified immediately. Money is not an object."
Adrian.
My footsteps halted mid-stride. My breath caught in my throat, trapped somewhere between my lungs and my collarbone.
I turned my head slowly. Standing just twenty feet away, framed by the dark wood paneling of Suite 402, was Adrian Moretti. He was wearing his signature tailored charcoal overcoat, his broad shoulders filling the doorway with an effortless, intimidating authority. His dark hair was combed back with meticulous precision, and his jawline—sharp enough to cut glass—was set in a hard, uncompromising line.
Beside him stood Marco Bellini, his towering, ever-faithful bodyguard and right-hand man, holding a thick leather-bound medical file under one arm.
And then, a second voice emerged from the room—soft, melodic, and dripping with a fragile vulnerability that I recognized instantly.
"Thank you, Adrian," murmured Vanessa Russo. "I know how busy you are with the acquisitions downtown. It means everything that you’re here."
Vanessa.
The name echoed in the chambers of my memory like a phantom bell. Vanessa Russo—the legendary first love of Adrian Moretti, the woman who had shattered his heart a decade ago before vanishing to Europe, and the very ghost whose shadow had haunted the edges of our entire three-year marriage. Though Adrian had never spoken her name aloud after our wedding day, I had found her old letters tucked away in his mahogany desk during our first year together. I had known, with a quiet, aching certainty, that I was merely a placeholder for the woman who got away.
And now, here he was, standing in a private maternity and specialty wing, playing the devoted savior to her damsel in distress.
Panic surged through my veins. The last thing I wanted, needed, or expected was to cross paths with Adrian Moretti today—especially not while carrying his child, and especially not while he was tending to his true love.
Without thinking, I ducked backward, slipping hastily through a half-open fire door that led to the secondary service staircase.
"Claire? Everything okay back there?" the nurse called out from a few yards ahead, pausing and turning around.
"Yes! Sorry, just dropped my pen," I whispered loudly, keeping my body half-concealed behind the heavy metal door. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs like a trapped bird. Get it together, Claire, I scolded myself silently. You are a divorced, independent woman. You don't hide from him.
Yet, my feet refused to step back out into the open hallway. I watched through the narrow wired-glass window of the fire door as Adrian turned his head, his sharp dark eyes scanning the corridor. For a terrifying second, I thought his gaze locked directly onto the glass, piercing right through me.
"Mr. Moretti? Is something wrong?" Marco asked, noticing his boss's sudden stiffness.
"Nothing," Adrian murmured, his deep voice carrying faintly down the hall. "Thought I heard something."
He turned back toward Vanessa’s room, disappearing inside as the heavy door clicked shut.
I let out a long, shuddering breath, pressing my hand against my chest to calm my racing heart. I turned around, intending to rush down the stairs and find another way to my appointment, but as I turned, my heel caught on the heavy rubber threshold of the fire door.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, stumbling forward.
"Claire?"
The voice wasn't from the stairs. It was right behind me.
I froze. The blood drained entirely from my face.
Slowly, agonizingly, I turned around. Marco Bellini was standing by the entrance of the stairwell, his imposing frame blocking any escape route. His sharp eyes flicked from my face down to my coat, and then—with terrifying precision—dropped straight to my midsection, where the loose fabric of my dress failed to completely hide the unmistakable curve of my pregnancy.
Marco’s eyes widened slightly—a micro-expression of shock that a man in his line of work rarely allowed to surface.
Before I could formulate a single word of excuse, heavy, measured footsteps echoed down the floorboards.
Adrian Moretti stepped out of Suite 402, his coat billowing slightly behind him. He followed Marco’s stunned gaze, his dark eyes tracing the line of sight until they landed squarely on me.
May you like
The air in the hallway vanished.
For several agonizing seconds, the entire universe contracted into the space between us. The powerful billionaire, the most feared man in New York financial circles, stood frozen. His lips parted slightly, his formidable composure cracking for the very first time in the three years I had known him.
