THE LAST GIFT

“Impossible…”

Vincent Moretti stared at the DNA report as though the words on the screen had personally threatened his life.

His thumb trembled.

He read the result once.

Then again.

And a third time.

PATERNITY PROBABILITY: 0.00%.

The child lying in the hospital nursery was not his biological son.

For several seconds, the room seemed to stop breathing.

His mother, Eleanor, approached with the newborn wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

“Vincent, darling, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned the phone toward her.

“Read it.”

Eleanor adjusted her glᴀsses.

Her eyes moved across the document.

Then her lips parted.

“No…”

She looked at the baby.

Then at Sophia.

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

Sophia’s face lost its color.

“What are you talking about?”

Vincent placed the phone on the bedside table.

“Apparently, I have been celebrating another man’s child.”

Sophia immediately began shaking her head.

“Vincent, listen to me. You can’t believe some random laboratory report. You know how much I love you.”

He laughed.

It was a terrible, humorless sound.

“Love me?”

He stepped closer.

“You spent nine months allowing me to believe I was becoming a father. I bought you a mansion. I paid your medical expenses. I put twenty armed men outside this room because I wanted nobody to disturb you.”

His voice dropped.

“And you knew?”

Sophia began crying.

“I can explain.”

“Then explain.”

She looked toward Eleanor.

The older woman was still holding the baby, but her expression had changed completely.

“Who is the father?” Eleanor demanded.

Sophia pressed her hands against the hospital blanket.

“Vincent, please. Not in front of your mother.”

“WHO IS THE FATHER?”

The newborn began crying.

A nurse hurried into the room.

“Sir, please lower your voice. The baby needs—”

Vincent turned toward her.

“Get everyone out.”

“Mr. Moretti…”

“Now.”

Within seconds, the nurse and two attendants disappeared.

Only Vincent, Eleanor, Sophia, and the child remained.

Sophia finally whispered a name.

“Anthony.”

Vincent went completely still.

Anthony Bellini.

His personal security director.

The man who had protected his family for eleven years.

The man who had stood outside his bedroom while Vincent slept.

The man Vincent had trusted with his business, his properties, and his life.

“You’re telling me,” Vincent said slowly, “that my head of security is the father of your child?”

Sophia covered her face.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Eleanor carefully placed the baby back in the bᴀssinet.

“Get her away from my family.”

Sophia looked up desperately.

“Mrs. Moretti, please!”

Eleanor’s eyes were ice-cold.

“Don’t call me that.”

Vincent didn’t say another word.

He walked toward the door.

One of his guards immediately straightened.

“Boss?”

“Find Anthony.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring him to me.”

The guard hesitated.

“There’s something you should know.”

Vincent turned.

“What?”

“Anthony hasn’t been seen since yesterday evening.”

A terrible silence followed.

“His residence is empty. His personal vehicle was found abandoned near the private airport.”

Vincent’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“Find him.”

The guard nodded.

“And one more thing, boss.”

“What?”

“He left something in your office.”

2. THE LETTER THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

Back in Chicago, Vincent returned to his mansion shortly before midnight.

He hadn’t held the newborn.

He hadn’t spoken to Sophia again.

And he hadn’t told his mother what he intended to do.

His private study looked exactly as it had that morning.

The expensive watches.

The leather furniture.

The family pH๏τographs.

And on his desk, the divorce papers.

Beside them lay my wedding ring.

Vincent picked it up.

He remembered the day he had placed it on my finger.

Five years earlier, in a small church overlooking Lake Michigan, I had smiled at him and promised to stand beside him through everything.

He remembered something else.

The last time I had asked him whether he still loved me.

He had told me to stop being difficult.

Now, for the first time, he understood how much damage those words had caused.

His eyes fell on my letter.

He picked it up and read it again.

Congratulations, Vincent.

You’re finally getting the family you wanted.

He crumpled the paper.

Then immediately smoothed it out again.

“Damn it, Claire.”

He reached for his phone.

“Call her.”

One of his men answered.

“Boss, we already tried. Her number is disconnected.”

“Find her new number.”

“We’re working on it.”

Vincent looked toward the window.

“Where is she?”

“Seattle, according to the flight records.”

“Find her address.”

There was a pause.

“Boss, there’s something else.”

Vincent closed his eyes.

“What now?”

“The divorce peтιтion was filed this morning. Your attorney received a copy.”

He opened his eyes.

“Without my signature?”

“Your attorney says the paperwork includes evidence of your infidelity and financial arrangements made with Ms. Reynolds.”

Vincent looked down at the documents.

“Get Daniel on the phone.”

Twenty minutes later, Daniel answered.

“Good evening, Mr. Moretti.”

“Where is Claire?”

“Your wife is no longer interested in discussing her whereabouts.”

“She’s still my wife.”

“Not for much longer.”

Vincent gripped the phone.

“Daniel, listen carefully. I want to speak with her.”

“Then you should have treated her like someone worth speaking to before she left.”

Vincent’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“Watch your tone.”

“My tone isn’t the problem, Vincent. Your behavior is.”

Silence.

Then Daniel continued.

“Claire signed everything. She waived several financial claims she was legally enтιтled to pursue. She wants a clean separation.”

Vincent stared at the wedding ring.

“She didn’t even ask for money?”

“No.”

“Not the properties?”

“No.”

“The company shares?”

“Nothing.”

Vincent swallowed.

“Why?”

Daniel’s answer was immediate.

“Because she doesn’t want anything that reminds her of you.”

The call ended.

For a long time, Vincent remained motionless.

Then he noticed a second envelope beneath the divorce peтιтion.

It had his name written across the front.

He opened it.

Inside was a document from the same genetics laboratory.

But this wasn’t the paternity report.

It was a second report.

A financial and medical timeline documenting Sophia’s pregnancy.

At the bottom was a note written by the laboratory’s private investigator.

The subject, Anthony Bellini, had been listed as the biological father in a confidential prenatal test conducted approximately seven months earlier.

Vincent stared.

Seven months.

Sophia had known for seven months.

And Anthony had known.

Which meant the two people he had trusted most had been deceiving him long before the child was born.

But the next page was even worse.

It contained copies of bank transfers from a company Vincent didn’t recognize.

The payments had been made to Anthony.

Monthly.

For almost two years.

The total exceeded $4.8 million.

Vincent slowly lowered the papers.

This was no longer simply an affair.

Someone had been using his family as cover for something much larger.

3. THE WOMAN IN SEATTLE

Three days later, I was standing in front of a small apartment overlooking Elliott Bay.

The rain had stopped.

The morning light reflected off the water.

For the first time in five years, I woke up without wondering whether Vincent would come home.

I made breakfast.

Opened the windows.

Bought fresh flowers.

And placed my wedding ring inside a small wooden box.

I wasn’t celebrating his downfall.

I was celebrating my freedom.

My phone rang.

Daniel.

“Claire, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Vincent has seen the DNA report.”

I took a sip of coffee.

“Good.”

“He knows about Anthony.”

I said nothing.

“Claire, there’s something else. The laboratory discovered that Anthony had been receiving millions from an offshore company.”

I put down my cup.

“What company?”

“It’s registered under a holding group called Bellmont International.”

I closed my eyes.

I knew that name.

Not because I had worked with them.

Because I had seen it before in Vincent’s private financial records.

Three years earlier, I had discovered suspicious transactions involving the same company.

I had brought them to Vincent.

He had dismissed my concerns.

He told me I didn’t understand how his business worked.

Then he ordered me never to question his financial decisions again.

I had never forgotten that conversation.

“Daniel,” I said quietly, “did you check who owns Bellmont International?”

“That’s the strange part. The registered ownership is hidden behind several corporate enтιтies.”

“Look deeper.”

“Why?”

“Because Anthony isn’t the person who designed this operation.”

There was a long pause.

Then Daniel asked:

“What makes you so certain?”

I looked out at the ocean.

“Because three years ago, I found the same company transferring money through Vincent’s accounts. And the person who authorized those transactions wasn’t Anthony.”

“Who was it?”

I hesitated.

Then I gave him a name.

“Eleanor Moretti.”

Daniel fell silent.

Vincent’s mother.

The woman who had called me family.

The woman who had sat beside me during my father’s funeral.

The woman who had repeatedly told me that I would never be good enough to give the Moretti family an heir.

I had always suspected she hated me.

But I had never imagined she might have been involved in something this dangerous.

Daniel finally spoke.

“Claire, are you saying Vincent’s own mother arranged this?”

“I’m saying we need proof before we accuse anyone.”

I ended the call.

Then I walked toward the wooden box containing my wedding ring.

Underneath it was another small envelope.

Inside was a pH๏τograph I had kept for years.

A pH๏τograph of Vincent, Eleanor, Anthony, and me at a charity gala.

I turned it over.

On the back, someone had written a sentence in handwriting I recognized immediately.

The first heir belongs to the family that controls the inheritance.

I stared at the words.

Then my phone rang again.

This time, the caller ID displayed a number I hadn’t seen in months.

Vincent.

I watched it ring.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Finally, I answered.

“Hello, Vincent.”

His voice sounded exhausted.

“Claire.”

“What do you want?”

“Come home.”

I almost laughed.

“Home?”

“Our marriage isn’t over.”

I looked around my apartment.

At the flowers.

The sunlight.

The quiet life I had just begun.

“Vincent, you ordered twenty armed men to keep me away from the birth of your child. You let your mistress take my place. You watched me disappear without even asking where I was going.”

He breathed heavily.

“I made a mistake.”

“No. You made a choice.”

“Claire, please. The DNA report—”

“Congratulations. You finally discovered what I already knew.”

Silence.

Then he asked something that made my expression change.

“Did you know about my mother?”

I froze.

“What about her?”

“Anthony’s payments. Bellmont International. The offshore accounts.”

I gripped the phone.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because I found something in my study. Something that connects her to the entire arrangement.”

I looked at the pH๏τograph in my hand.

“Vincent, listen carefully. Don’t confront your mother yet.”

“Why?”

“Because if she’s involved, she already knows you’ve seen the report.”

He didn’t answer.

Then I heard a loud crash through the phone.

A man’s voice shouted something in the background.

Vincent suddenly spoke.

“Claire?”

“I’m here.”

“Someone just entered my study.”

My blood ran cold.

“Who?”

There was a brief struggle.

Then the line went ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

4. THE FINAL GIFT

I immediately called Daniel.

“Get someone to check Vincent’s mansion. Something has happened.”

He promised to contact the appropriate people.

But before he could call back, a new message appeared on my phone.

Unknown number.

One pH๏τograph.

Vincent’s wedding ring lay on the floor of his study.

Beside it was a handwritten note.

YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN CHICAGO, CLAIRE.

I stared at the screen.

Then another message arrived.

YOUR HUSBAND ISN’T THE ONLY PERSON WHO KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED FIVE YEARS AGO.

My hands began to tremble.

Five years ago.

The year Vincent and I got married.

The year I discovered I was pregnant.

The year the doctor told me I had lost the baby.

At least, that was what I had always believed.

I slowly opened the wooden box beneath my desk.

Inside was a medical envelope I had never shown Vincent.

It contained an old hospital record.

And a handwritten note from the specialist who had treated me.

I unfolded it.

My eyes moved across the final sentence.

Patient’s pregnancy outcome requires further verification. Original records transferred under authorization from Eleanor Moretti.

I stopped breathing.

Eleanor had signed the transfer authorization.

Why?

What had she done with my medical records?

And why had someone just threatened me over something that happened five years ago?

I reached for my phone and called Daniel again.

This time, he answered immediately.

“Claire, you need to listen to me.”

“What happened?”

“Vincent is alive. He’s been taken to a private hospital. His security team found him unconscious.”

I closed my eyes in relief.

“Is he going to be all right?”

“He’s stable. But Claire…”

“What?”

“Before he lost consciousness, he asked the guards to deliver something to you.”

“What is it?”

“A small wooden box.”

My heart began pounding.

“What’s inside?”

Daniel hesitated.

Then he said:

“An ultrasound pH๏τograph.”

I couldn’t move.

“Whose ultrasound?”

“Yours, Claire.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I looked at the old medical envelope.

Then at the pH๏τograph in my hand.

Five years ago, I had been told my baby hadn’t survived.

But if Vincent had kept an ultrasound pH๏τograph all this time, and Eleanor had secretly transferred my medical records…

There was only one question I could no longer ignore.

Had I really lost my child five years ago?

Or had someone taken the truth from me before I ever had the chance to become a mother?

And somewhere in Chicago, Vincent Moretti was finally beginning to understand that the woman he had thrown away might be the only person who could expose the darkest secret of his own family.

TO BE CONTINUED — PART 3.