My husband was in Paris with the woman he had never stopped loving when I went into labor with our daughter.Chapter 1: PART 1: THE NIGHT HE WASN’T THERE

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Chapter 1

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My husband was in Paris with the woman he had never stopped loving when I went into labor with our daughter.Chapter 1: PART 1: THE NIGHT HE WASN'T THERE
PART 1: THE NIGHT HE WASN'T THERE

My contractions began at 3:17 in the morning while my husband was in Paris with another woman.

At 3:42, I called Vincent.

At 3:43, his phone went to voicemail.

At 4:06, my water broke on the marble floor of the bedroom we had shared for almost five years.

And by sunrise, I understood something I should have understood long before that night.

A woman could be married to one of the most powerful men in Chicago and still be completely alone.

My name is Emily Carter Moretti.

At the time, I was thirty-one years old, nine months pregnant, and married to Vincent Moretti.

People in Chicago knew his name even when they pretended they didn't.

His legitimate businesses included hotels, shipping companies, restaurants, real estate, and casinos.

The rest of his empire was discussed more quietly.

Men who normally feared no one lowered their voices around him.

Restaurant owners found tables when there were none.

Hotel managers opened private floors.

People returned Vincent's calls before the first ring finished.

But that morning, when I needed my husband, I couldn't even get him to answer his phone.

I stood beside the bed with one hand beneath my stomach and the other gripping the nightstand.

Another contraction came.

Harder.

Longer.

I closed my eyes.

"Not yet," I whispered.

My doctor had told me three days earlier that our daughter could arrive at any time.

Vincent knew.

He had been sitting beside me during the appointment, one ankle resting across his knee while he answered messages on his phone.

Dr. Patel had looked directly at him.

"Mr. Moretti, I would strongly recommend staying close to home now."

Vincent had glanced up.

"Of course."

Twenty-four hours later, Sophia Bennett called from Paris.

By that evening, he was on his private jet.

Sophia had been Vincent's first love.

The woman his mother once assumed he would marry.

They had grown up around each other, dated through their early twenties, separated after a bitter argument, and somehow remained woven through the edges of each other's lives.

When Vincent married me, he told me that chapter was finished.

I believed him because I wanted to.

During our first year together, Sophia lived in London.

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