Chapter 4 - MY MARRIAGE HAD BEEN ARRANGED BEFORE I FELL IN LOVE“YOUR HUSBAND DIDN'T MEET YOU BY ACCIDENT, CLAIRE. RICHARD MORETTI MADE SURE HIS SON WOULD BE IN THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME.”
I read my father's words three times.
Each time, they hurt more.
Nathan sat beside me on a wooden bench at Union Station, watching commuters hurry past with their suitcases and coffee cups.
The world continued moving as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
But for me, everything had changed.
I remembered the first time I met Vincent.
It was at a charity auction benefiting children's hospitals.
I had been twenty-six, working as a development coordinator for a nonprofit foundation.
Vincent approached me while I was examining a painting.
He made a joke about the absurd price someone had offered for it.
I laughed.
We spent the next two hours talking.
He asked about my work, my father, my childhood.
He seemed genuinely interested.
By the end of the evening, he had asked for my number.
I went home convinced that something wonderful had begun.
Now I stared at my father's letter.
Claire, Richard learned that I intended to protect the Bennett property from further financial transactions. He also knew that my daughter would eventually inherit it.
Shortly afterward, Vincent began pursuing you.
I cannot prove that Vincent knew his father arranged the meeting. I want to believe he didn't.
But I became concerned when Richard began asking whether you planned to transfer the mansion into a family trust after your wedding.
My hands trembled.
I continued reading.
You were so happy, sweetheart. I didn't want to destroy that happiness based on suspicion. That was my greatest mistake.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
Nathan gently handed me a tissue.
I barely noticed.
If you are reading this, something has gone terribly wrong. Please remember that none of Richard's decisions were your responsibility.
Whatever happens, protect your independence. The house belongs to you, but its greatest value is not the money. It is the life you are free to build inside it.
Love, Dad.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
My father had been dead for five years.
And somehow, his words still knew exactly where I was hurting.
Nathan waited until I could speak.
“Claire, we need to distinguish what your father knew from what he suspected.”
I nodded.
“Do you think Vincent knew?”
“I don't know.”
Neither did I.
That uncertainty was almost worse than certainty.
Because I could accept that my husband had betrayed me.
What I couldn't bear was the possibility that the entire relationship had begun as a transaction.
Nathan opened the metal case again.
The documents inside were organized with my father's meticulous precision.
A folder labeled Bennett Development Partnership contained agreements dating back nearly ten years.
Another contained bank correspondence.
A third was marked Employee Benefit Transfers.
Nathan examined several pages.
“These appear to involve a series of loans, property interests, and transactions between companies with overlapping ownership.”
“Is that illegal?”
“Not automatically. But some of these transactions deserve serious scrutiny.”
He carefully placed the papers back inside.
Then he picked up the flash drive.
“We shouldn't connect this to an ordinary computer without making a forensic copy.”
I frowned.
“You think someone could have tampered with it?”
“I think we should preserve the evidence properly.”
Before leaving, we photographed the contents of the metal case and documented where we had found it.
Nathan arranged for the materials to be transferred securely to his firm's forensic specialists.
By the time we reached his office, it was nearly noon.
He called Eleanor Price and arranged a private meeting for the following morning.
Then he turned toward me.
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“Your father's letter suggests Richard may have manipulated your relationship. But proving that won't automatically resolve the loan dispute.”
“I understand.”
“We also need to be prepared for Vincent to contest the divorce.”
I looked at my wedding ring.
It still sat on my finger.
A small platinum band with a diamond Vincent had chosen himself.
I had loved that ring.
Now it felt unbearably heavy.
I slipped it off.
Placed it on Nathan's desk.
And said quietly:
“Then he can contest it. I'm not going back.”
That afternoon, I returned to the penthouse.
For the first time, it didn't feel like home.
It felt like a beautifully furnished hotel room where I had spent three years waiting for someone who rarely arrived.
I walked through the living room.
The enormous windows overlooked the Chicago River.
Everything was expensive.
Everything was perfect.
And almost nothing had been chosen by me.
The artwork came from Vincent's decorator.
The furniture came from his preferred designer.
Even the flowers were selected by his assistant.
Sophia.
I stopped beside the dining table.
A memory returned.
Six months earlier, I had suggested replacing the enormous glass sculpture in the living room with a painting by a local artist.
Vincent had barely looked up from his phone.
“Claire, leave the decorating to professionals.”
I had laughed it off.
Now I understood how many small pieces of myself I had surrendered.
My phone rang.
Vincent.
This time, I answered.
“Claire, where are you?”
“At home.”
He sounded relieved.
“Good. Stay there. I'm coming over.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“I don't want you here.”
His voice hardened.
“It's my home too.”
“Then have your attorney discuss access arrangements with mine.”
Silence.
Then he asked:
“What did you find at the mansion?”
I closed my eyes.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because my father has been acting strangely since last night.”
“Maybe he's afraid of the truth.”
Vincent exhaled.
“Claire, please. I'm trying to understand.”
I thought about the letter.
About the charity auction.
About the man who had walked into my life at exactly the right moment.
“Vincent, did your father arrange for us to meet?”
He didn't answer.
My heart sank.
“Vincent?”
Finally, he spoke.
“He told me you'd be at the auction.”
I sat down slowly.
“Why?”
“He said your foundation needed donors. He thought I should meet you.”
“Was that the only reason?”
Another silence.
“Claire, I swear I didn't know anything about the property.”
I stared at the wall.
“You didn't answer my question.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I liked you from the moment I saw you.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“I know.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the question that had been haunting me since Union Station.
“Did you marry me because you loved me, or because your father wanted you to?”
Vincent took a long breath.
“Claire, I fell in love with you.”
I closed my eyes.
For one painful moment, I wanted to believe him.
Then he continued.
“But I need to tell you something about our engagement.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
He spoke so quietly I almost missed it.
“My father offered me control of the company six months earlier than planned if I married you.”
I went completely still.
“And you accepted?”
Vincent didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
I ended the call.
A few moments later, an email arrived from an unfamiliar address.
The subject line contained only four words.
Your marriage was purchased.
Attached was a scanned document.
A confidential agreement bearing Vincent's signature.
And beneath it, a single sentence:
Upon completion of the marriage between Vincent Moretti and Claire Bennett, executive control of Moretti Holdings shall transfer to Vincent Moretti.
May you like
At the bottom was the date.
Three weeks before Vincent proposed.
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