Chapter 2
Then Paris.
Then New York.
She appeared at weddings, charity events, family dinners, and occasionally in stories Vincent's relatives stopped telling when I entered the room.
I never asked him to cut her out completely.
I didn't want to become the suspicious wife monitoring every name on her husband's phone.
Besides, Vincent always had the same answer.
"Emily, if I wanted Sophia, I would be with Sophia."
I used to find that reassuring.
Years later, I realized he had never actually said he didn't want her.
The night before he left, I had been sitting on the edge of our bed folding tiny white onesies.
Vincent stood by the dresser packing a dark suitcase.
I watched him place three shirts inside.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Two days."
"You know what Dr. Patel said."
"I know."
I waited.
He kept packing.
"Vincent."
He finally looked at me.
"Sophia's mother is sick. She's alone."
There it was.
Not a business emergency.
Not a crisis involving one of his hotels.
Sophia.
"She doesn't have anyone else?"
"Not anyone she trusts."
I stared at him.
"And I do?"
His expression tightened.
"Don't make this into something it isn't."
I almost laughed.
Instead, I rested both hands over our daughter.
"I'm due in less than a week."
"I'll be back."
"You don't know that."
His jaw hardened.
"Emily."
That tone used to end arguments.
It carried through conference rooms and restaurants and every room where Vincent Moretti expected to be obeyed.
But pregnancy had exhausted my fear of disappointing him.
"What happens if I go into labor?"
"You call me."
"And if you're ten hours away?"
"I'll come home."
I looked at the open suitcase.
"You could stay."
For perhaps two seconds, he said nothing.
That silence told me more than his eventual answer.
"Sophia needs me."
I remember nodding.
Just once.
Because there was no point asking the obvious question.
What about me?
What about your daughter?
What about the woman standing in front of you carrying a child who could arrive tomorrow?
He zipped the suitcase.
At the bedroom door, he turned back.
"I'll be home before anything happens."
I wanted to tell him that something was already happening.
Something inside me was breaking very quietly.
Instead, I said, "Have a safe flight."
He crossed the room and kissed my forehead.
Not my mouth.
My forehead.
Like I was someone he cared about.