Chapter 2 - The Shattered Illusion
The lock clicked into place on my front door, followed by the heavy thud of the deadbolt and the slide of the security chain. Only then did my shoulders drop, a shudder racking my entire body so hard I had to press my back against the wood to keep from sliding to the floor.
“Mommy, your hands are shaking,” Amara said. She was already unlacing her boots, setting them neatly on the mat with that terrifying, precocious orderliness she had inherited from a father she didn’t know.
“I’m just cold, sweetie,” I lied, forcing a smile that felt like cardboard on my face. “How about we skip the baths tonight, have some hot cocoa, and watch that movie about the polar bears?”
Noah cheered, the tension of the restaurant instantly evaporating from his seven-year-old mind. “With the big marshmallows?”
“With double marshmallows. Go wash your hands.”
I watched them scramble toward the bathroom, their bright, unfiltered laughter echoing down the hallway of our brownstone apartment. It was a modest place in Brooklyn—hardwood floors that creaked, high ceilings with chipped crown molding, and walls covered in their watercolor paintings. It wasn't the five-story glass-and-marble penthouse Luca owned overlooking Central Park, but it was ours. It was safe.
Or at least, it had been safe until an hour ago.
While the milk heated on the stove, my phone vibrated on the counter. It wasn't a call; it was a news alert from a high-profile society blog.
*BILLIONAIRE LUCA MORETTI CAUGHT IN HEATED CONFRONTATION WITH EX-WIFE NIA CARTER. SECRET CHILDREN?*
My stomach plummeted. There was a grainy photo attached, taken through the glass windows of the restaurant. It captured Luca, pale and towering, staring down at Noah, whose profile was unmistakable.
My phone immediately began to buzz in my hand.
*Marcus Vance - Legal.*
I hit accept and brought it to my ear. “Marcus.”
“Nia, turn off your lights and check your street,” Marcus said without preamble. He wasn't just my corporate lawyer; he was one of the few people who knew the truth about the divorce. “Moretti’s security team has already pulled the registry records for your boutique. They’re running license plates. Luca’s chief of security, Keller, just called my office asking for an emergency meeting.”
I walked to the living room window, carefully peeling back the edge of the linen curtain.
Parked across the street, beneath the yellow glow of a streetlamp, was a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. The engine was idling, thin plumes of white exhaust curling into the cold air.
A chill traced down my spine. “He found us already.”
“He has endless resources, Nia,” Marcus warned grimly. “Seven years ago, you agreed not to seek child support, not to contest the divorce, and not to make any public claims. You did that because you wanted absolute peace and full custody without a fight. But you never legally terminated his paternity, because you didn't list a father on the birth certificates.”
“I didn't list him because he made it clear he would have forced me to terminate the pregnancy or dragged me through courts until I lost my mind!” My voice rose in a frantic whisper, and I had to check myself, glancing down the hall toward the bathroom. “You remember what he said to me, Marcus. You remember the letter.”
“I remember,” Marcus sighed. “He believed you betrayed him. He believed you sold his proprietary software specs to Shaw Global.”
“Which was a lie! I didn't even know what a source code looked like!”
“I know that, Nia. But the Shaws played him brilliantly seven years ago. Evelyn Shaw stepped into his bed and his board room the minute you walked out. Now, Luca is looking at two kids who carry his face. If he orders a DNA test through a court petition, no judge in New York will deny him.”
“He can’t have them,” I whispered, tears of rage finally spilling over my lashes. “He abandoned us. He signed the papers while I was throwing up from morning sickness in a motel bathroom in Queens. He doesn't get to be a father now because it’s convenient or because his pride is wounded.”
“Get through the night,” Marcus advised. “Keep the doors locked. Don't speak to reporters. I’ll be at your place at eight tomorrow morning. We file for an emergency restraining and privacy order before Moretti’s lawyers wake up.”
I hung up, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I delivered the hot cocoa to the living room table. The kids sat cross-legged on the rug, mesmerized by the glowing television screen. I watched them—Noah with his messy dark curls and the gentle, empathetic curve of his mouth; Amara, sharp-eyed, observant, sitting with her spine straight as a soldier’s.
How could he not have known?
Seven years ago, when the accusations started, Luca hadn't even listened to me. He had thrown a stack of doctored emails and offshore bank statements onto our mahogany dining table. *“You sold me out to Evelyn’s father,”* he had snarled, his eyes bloodshot, smelling of scotch. *“You played the sweet, innocent artist, and you sold my life’s work to my greatest rival.”*
I had begged him. I had knelt in front of him, crying until I couldn't breathe, telling him I loved him, that someone was framing me. And he had looked down at me with pure disgust. *“Sign the dissolution papers, Nia. Take the five hundred thousand settlement, and vanish. If you fight me, I’ll ensure you spend the next ten years in federal prison.”*
I had torn the settlement check into confetti and thrown it into his face. I didn't take a single dime of his money. Two weeks later, sitting in a tiny clinic, the doctor told me I was six weeks pregnant with twins.
A sharp knock sounded at my front door.
Three heavy, deliberate raps.
Noah and Amara jumped, turning toward the foyer.
“Stay there,” I commanded softly, my voice hardening.
I walked to the door, peered through the peephole, and my blood ran ice-cold.
It wasn't a process server. It wasn't Luca’s security guard.
Luca Moretti stood alone in the dingy, carpeted hallway of my apartment building. He had stripped off his suit jacket, his white dress shirt open at the throat, his dark hair disheveled by the wind. In his right hand, he held a manila folder.
He looked directly at the peephole, as if he could see me breathing on the other side.
May you like
“Open the door, Nia,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick oak, but vibrating with raw, terrifying authority. “Or I will buy this entire building in the next twenty minutes and take the door off its hinges.”
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