The Moretti Heir

When I stepped out of the clinic twenty minutes later, feeling emotionally drained yet strangely fortified by the sound of my baby’s heartbeat, the bright Manhattan afternoon sun felt blinding.

I pulled my sunglasses down over my eyes, wrapped my wool coat tightly around myself, and headed toward the subway entrance on Lexington Avenue. I just wanted to get back to Brooklyn—back to my quiet apartment, my freelance designs, and my safe little bubble where Adrian Moretti didn't exist.

"Ms. Bennett."

A low, calm, undeniably familiar voice cut through the noisy bustle of the sidewalk.

I paused, turning my head.

Parked at the curb directly beside the subway stairs was a sleek, matte-black Maybach limousine with tinted windows. The rear door clicked open, and Marco Bellini stepped out onto the concrete, his tall, imposing frame blocking my path to the subway stairs with quiet efficiency.

"Marco. Move," I said, my voice cold and flat.

"Mr. Moretti requests a brief conversation, Claire. Please," Marco said, his tone respectful yet entirely unyielding. He wasn't asking; he was executing an order, though softened by the residual loyalty we had built during my years at Moretti Capital.

I turned my gaze toward the tinted window of the limousine. The glass slowly rolled down, revealing Adrian’s profile. He was sitting in the leather-lined interior, his coat off, his tie slightly loosened at the collar—a rare sign of disarray for a man who prided himself on immaculate perfection.

"I have nothing to say to him, Marco," I said, turning back toward the subway entrance.

"Claire."

Adrian’s voice came from the open car window, rich and low, carrying across the sidewalk.

"Get in the car. We are not talking on a public sidewalk in broad daylight."

"I don't take orders from you anymore, Adrian. In case you forgot, the judge signed our papers sixty-three days ago!" I snapped, my voice rising above the roar of passing traffic.

Adrian didn't yell. He didn't lose his temper. Instead, he opened the car door himself and stepped out onto the sidewalk, towering over me in his tailored suit. The intensity of his gaze was enough to make passing pedestrians avert their eyes and walk faster.

"Sixty-three days," Adrian repeated softly, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "And for every single one of those days, you were carrying my child, while I sat in my empty penthouse believing I had successfully purged you from my life."

"You wanted it purged!" I shot back, my eyes flashing with unshed tears. "You said our marriage was over! You said it had run its course! You didn't want me, Adrian! Why would you want my—our—baby?"

"Because it's ours," he said, the word dropping like a heavy stone between us. His dark eyes burned with an unfamiliar, desperate fire. "You think I view a child the way I view a business merger, Claire? You think I look at blood the same way I look at contracts?"

"You treated me like a contract for three years!"

The words tore themselves out of my throat, raw and bleeding from years of suppressed loneliness.

Adrian flinched. As if I had physically struck him across the face, he stepped back half a step, his jaw locking into a hard, rigid line. For a fleeting second, I saw genuine remorse flicker in the dark depths of his eyes—a rare, fragile admission of guilt from a man who never apologized to anyone.

"Get in the car," he said again, his voice dropping to a low, non-negotiable register. "We are going to my uptown office, or we are going to a private restaurant, or we are going wherever you damn well please—but we are going to sit down like civilized adults and discuss how we handle the fact that my heir is currently growing inside my ex-wife."

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. His heir. There it was. The Moretti dynasty mindset rearing its head.

"I am not your incubator, Adrian," I whispered fiercely. "And this baby is not a corporate asset for you to claim."

"I know," he said quietly, his gaze softening just a fraction—a terrifying display of vulnerability from the city's most ruthless tycoon. "Please, Claire. Just twenty minutes. Give me twenty minutes to explain."

I looked at the sleek black car, then back up at Adrian's haunted, exhausted face. I knew stubbornness. I knew independence. But I also knew that running away from Adrian Moretti was no longer an option when he had already tracked me down to a hospital in Manhattan.