Chapter 2 - THE CHILD HE NEVER KNEW
The private elevator rose with unbearable calm. Grace lay against my chest, one arm curled protectively across her stomach, the other gripping the lapel of my tuxedo. She was conscious, but barely. Her face had gone pale enough to frighten me. Roman had called a physician who attended the gala, but I refused to wait in the ballroom. The hotel maintained a medical suite for high-profile guests, and within two minutes a nurse and an emergency obstetrician were waiting on the twentieth floor.
“Put me down,” Grace whispered. “No.” “I can walk.” “You almost collapsed.” Her eyes closed. “I’m not going to die just because you finally found me.” The sentence landed with enough force to silence everyone in the elevator. Meredith had not followed. My mother, who had been speaking with donors near the east ballroom, had sent three messages to Roman demanding to know why the security detail had moved. I told him not to answer.
When the elevator opened, I carried Grace into the medical suite. White light replaced gold. The smell of antiseptic replaced perfume and champagne. Dr. Lena Patel, a compact woman in her fifties with the blunt authority of someone unimpressed by wealth, pointed toward an examination bed. “Set her down and step back.” I obeyed. That alone startled Roman.
Grace looked at me once before the curtain closed. The fear in her eyes was worse than the blood. I had seen men facing execution with less terror. I stood outside the curtain while Dr. Patel asked questions in a calm voice. “How many weeks?” “Thirty-two.” My jaw locked. Thirty-two weeks. I counted backward without meaning to. Seven months since Grace vanished. She had been pregnant when she left.
“Any complications?” “No.” “Prenatal care?” A pause. “Community clinic.” “Last appointment?” “Three weeks ago.” “Any contractions?” “Not exactly. Pressure. Sometimes.” “Are you working full-time?” Another pause. “Yes.” The doctor sighed in a way that sounded like judgment. “Housekeeping?” “Yes.” “At thirty-two weeks.” “I need the job.” Something hot moved beneath my ribs. I had accounts in Zurich, property in three states, a penthouse with a wine cellar I never entered, and the mother of my child needed a housekeeping job to survive.
If the baby was mine. I hated myself for needing confirmation, but I needed it. Dr. Patel emerged ten minutes later. “The bleeding appears to be from cervical irritation, not placental abruption. Fetal heartbeat is strong. She is dehydrated, anemic, and exhausted. I want her monitored for several hours. If the bleeding increases or contractions begin, she goes to Northwestern immediately.”
“Is the baby safe?” “For now.” “For now is not an answer.” “It is the only honest answer,” she said. “Stress can complicate things. So whoever you are to her, don’t create more of it.” Roman looked down to hide what might have been amusement. I ignored him. “Can I speak to her?” “If she agrees.”
That answer was new territory for me. People rarely asked whether others agreed to speak with me. Grace agreed, but only after insisting the curtain remain open. I stepped inside. She had changed into a hospital gown beneath a blanket. An IV ran into her arm. A fetal monitor traced the baby’s heartbeat across a small screen in steady green waves.
I stared at the rhythm. The sound filled the room. Fast. Alive. My throat tightened. Grace watched me watching it. “You should go back to your gala,” she said. “I’m not leaving.” “You always leave eventually.” I looked at her. “That’s not fair.” She laughed once, without humor. “You think this is about fairness?” “I came home and you were gone.”
“And you never asked yourself why I left without taking anything you gave me?” “I asked every day.” “No. You decided.” Her eyes glistened. “You decided I was weak. You decided I was ungrateful. You decided I couldn’t handle your life.” “I searched for you.” “Your men searched for me.” “I searched too.” “Did you search your own house?”
The question was so strange I almost missed its meaning. “What does that mean?” Grace turned her face away. I stepped closer. “Grace.” “No.” “Who threatened you?” Her eyes snapped back to mine. There it was. The truth. Not spoken, but alive between us. I felt my entire body become still. “Who?” She swallowed. “You’re asking seven months too late.”
“Tell me.” “And then what? Someone disappears? A warehouse burns? A body ends up in the river?” “If someone hurt you—” “That’s exactly what they counted on.” I stopped. Grace’s voice cracked for the first time. “They knew what you would do.” The baby monitor continued its steady rhythm. I lowered myself into the chair beside the bed. I had negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts with men planning to betray me, ordered armed crews into hostile territory, and stared down federal investigators who wanted my family buried. None of it prepared me for the sight of Grace wiping a tear away with the heel of her hand as if ashamed to let me see it.
“Is the baby mine?” I asked quietly. She closed her eyes. For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she whispered, “Yes.” The room changed. No explosion. No thunder. Just one word. Yes. I looked at the monitor again, and something inside me broke so cleanly I could almost hear it. A son or daughter had been growing in the city while I drank myself to sleep, cursed Grace’s name, accepted Meredith on my arm at dinners, and allowed my mother to speak of the woman I loved as if she had been an inconvenience.
May you like
I stood too quickly. Grace flinched. That stopped me. I forced my hands open. “I didn’t know.” “I know.” “I would have protected you.” Her expression hollowed. “That was the problem.” Before I could ask what she meant, Roman appeared at the doorway. He did not interrupt me unless the matter was serious. “What?” His jaw tightened. “We found something on the housekeeping floor.”
Grace went rigid. Roman held up a clear evidence bag. Inside was a white envelope. My name was written across the front in black ink. ETHAN MORETTI. Below it, in smaller letters: YOU WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO SEE HER AGAIN. I looked at Grace. All the remaining color left her face. “You need to get out of this hotel,” she whispered. “Why?” Her eyes moved to the envelope. “Because they know you found me.”
