While he was spending our resources on another life.
I looked down.
“Can the court address that?”
Rebecca nodded.
“We can present the documented expenditures in the marital property proceedings. The legal treatment will depend on the circumstances and applicable law.”
I took a breath.
“Okay.”
She paused.
“There’s another document.”
I looked up.
Rebecca hesitated.
“Claire, you don’t have to review everything today.”
I stared at her.
“What is it?”
She opened a copy of a personal statement Vanessa had provided.
It described the early history of their relationship.
The trips.
The promises.
The ceremony.
And the repeated fertility consultations.
Then one paragraph caught my attention.
Vincent told me he was separating from Claire because she no longer wanted children and had chosen her hospital career over their marriage.
I stared.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
No longer wanted children.
My hand moved instinctively toward my abdomen.
I remembered the miscarriage.
The ultrasound room.
The terrible silence after the doctor explained that the pregnancy had ended.
I remembered calling Vincent.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Seventeen times.
I had wanted him there because I was losing our baby.
And he had told another woman I no longer wanted children.
I began crying.
Rebecca passed me a tissue.
I shook my head.
“I wanted that baby.”
“I know.”
I looked at her.
“I wanted our baby so badly.”
Her expression softened.
“I know, Claire.”
For several minutes, I couldn’t speak.
Then I continued reading.
Vanessa stated that she and Vincent had attempted to conceive for approximately three years.
There had been medical consultations.
Disappointment.
Treatment.
And repeated assurances that once they had a child, Vincent would stop delaying their public life together.
I stared at the words.
Then whispered:
“He promised her the same future he promised me.”
Rebecca was quiet.
I looked down.
For years, I had wondered why Vincent became uncomfortable whenever I mentioned having a family.
Now I understood.
He had made promises he couldn’t keep to two women.
And instead of telling the truth, he’d kept asking both of us to wait.
That afternoon, Vanessa sent a statement through counsel that Rebecca asked whether I wanted to read.
I did.
It was brief.
Dr. Moretti,
I understand that you have no reason to trust me or want to hear from me.
I believed Vincent’s marriage had ended. That belief was based on things he repeatedly told me and documents he showed me.
I should have asked more questions.
I am sorry for the pain my relationship with him has caused you.
I don’t expect forgiveness.
I only want you to know that I did not understand the situation on Christmas Eve.
Vanessa.
I read it twice.
Then placed it on the desk.
For a long time, I couldn’t speak.
Rebecca waited.
Finally, I asked:
“Does she still want to be with him?”
Rebecca considered.
“Her attorney indicates she’s reconsidering that relationship.”
I nodded.
There was no triumph.
No satisfaction.
Just sadness.
Two women.
Both pregnant.
Both given different versions of the same man’s life.
Both now facing consequences they hadn’t chosen.
But that didn’t make our experiences identical.
Vanessa had been the other woman in my marriage.
I had been the wife who spent Christmas Eve treating her.
And Vincent was the person who had knowingly maintained the lie.
I looked at Rebecca.
“I don’t want to meet her.”
She nodded.
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to become her friend.”
“That’s not required either.”
I swallowed.
“But I don’t want anything bad to happen to her baby.”
Rebecca’s expression softened.
I looked down.
“That baby didn’t do anything.”
We sat quietly.
Then Rebecca said:
“There’s one more issue to discuss.”
I looked up.
“The ceremony?”
“Not that.”
She turned a page.
“Vincent told Vanessa that you were already divorced when she signed the lease for their apartment.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“He’s also made representations about his marital status in connection with business-related housing expenses.”
I frowned.
“What kind of representations?”
Rebecca placed a summary in front of me.
Vincent’s company was called Moretti Urban Development.
He’d founded it twelve years earlier and built it into a successful Chicago real-estate development business.
He was managing partner.
The face of the firm.
The man investors trusted to make complicated projects look simple.
Several expenses connected with Vanessa’s apartment had apparently been processed through company accounts as executive accommodation or development-related travel.
I stared.
“Was it business housing?”
“That’s being questioned.”
I looked down.
The apartment had been in Chicago.
Not New York.
Not a construction site.
Not a temporary residence near a project.
A luxury apartment where Vincent spent nights with Vanessa.
I thought about the hotel receipts.
The transfers.
The lies.
Then I looked at Rebecca.
“Could that become a business problem?”
