Chapter 2 - The Sixty-Three Day Shadow
The shock on Adrian’s face was almost violent in its stillness. His pupils dilated until the dark brown of his irises seemed swallowed entirely by black. The hand at his side curled into a fist, the knuckles whitening against the heavy wool of his coat.
“Claire,” he said. The syllable was raw, scraped from the bottom of his throat.
“Excuse me, Adrian. My doctor is waiting.” I turned my back on him. It took every ounce of strength in my legs not to run, to keep my gait dignified and measured as I pushed open the heavy wooden door of Suite 402.
“Claire! Stop.”
His footsteps were rapid behind me. Before the heavy pneumatic door could click shut, an arm clad in dark cashmere shot out, catching the edge. Adrian forced his way into the small reception vestibule of the clinic room. Marco remained outside, his imposing frame blocking the doorway against nurses or onlookers with practiced efficiency.
“Adrian, get out of here,” I said, backing away toward the examination table. “You have no right to barge in here.”
“No right?” His voice trembled with a terrifying undercurrent of suppressed fury and something darker, something like panic. He stepped closer, his height casting a shadow that enveloped me completely. “How far along did you say you were?”
“It doesn't concern you.”
“Claire. *How. Far.*”
I raised my chin, meeting the searing intensity of his gaze. “Almost sixteen weeks.”
I watched the machinery of his brilliant, ruthless mind click into place. Sixteen weeks was one hundred and twelve days. We had signed the dissolution of our marriage sixty-three days ago.
His skin paled. “Whose is it?”
A laugh tore from my throat—bitter, jagged, and hollow. “Whose is it? Are you serious, Adrian? You spent three years managing every hour of my life, tracking my schedule down to the quarter-hour for your corporate dinners. Do you genuinely believe I had a secret lover tucked away in the guest suite?”
“Then it’s mine,” he whispered. The accusation vanished, replaced by an expression so raw and terrifyingly hungry it made my knees weak. He took half a step forward, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch the coat covering my stomach. “It’s mine. You were pregnant when you signed the divorce papers.”
“The baby has nothing to do with you,” I said, clutching my purse to my chest like a shield. “You told me our marriage was an arrangement that had run its course. You looked me in the eye and told me to leave. I left. You don’t get to claim the child just because you happened to be the biological donor before you discarded me.”
“Discarded you?” Adrian echoed, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched violently along his cheekbone. “You think I discarded you?”
“Mrs. Bennett?”
The inner door opened, and Dr. Lawson, a kind-faced woman in her fifties, stepped out holding a digital tablet. She stopped dead, taking in the suffocating tension between me and the billionaire looming over my space.
“Is everything all right in here, Claire?” Dr. Lawson asked carefully, her eyes darting to Adrian.
“We are in the middle of a private conversation, Doctor,” Adrian said without looking away from me, his tone dropping into that command-voice that moved billions of dollars with a single phone call.
“She’s my doctor, Adrian, not your vice president,” I snapped, stepping around him. “Please leave. If you don’t, I will have hospital security remove you.”
Adrian’s mouth set into a grim line. “Security here reports to the Moretti board, Claire. I built this wing.”
“Then enjoy the wing. Leave me alone.”
I slipped past him into the inner examination room and pulled the heavy door shut behind me. I heard the lock click. Outside, there was a momentary silence, followed by the muffled sound of Adrian’s voice speaking to Marco in low, lethal tones.
Inside the quiet room, the lights were already dimmed.
“Take a seat on the table, Claire,” Dr. Lawson said gently, not prying, though her eyes were full of sympathy. “Let’s check on your little one.”
I hoisted myself onto the padded paper-covered table. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely pull up my sweater. Dr. Lawson squeezed a dollop of cold, blue gel onto the lower curve of my abdomen. The shock of the temperature grounded me, pulling me back from the edge of hysteria.
She pressed the transducer against my skin.
A moment of static crackled through the speaker. Then, suddenly, the small room filled with a sound.
*Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.*
Rapid. Rhythmic. Defiantly strong. Like a galloping horse on a dirt road.
Tears sprang instantly to my eyes, hot and uncontrollable, spilling down my temples into my hair. It was real. Despite the terror, the isolation, the hollow ache in my chest that had lived there since the day I walked out of the penthouse—this tiny life was thriving inside me.
“Strong heartbeat,” Dr. Lawson smiled, turning the screen toward me. “One hundred and fifty beats per minute. Normal fluid levels. Perfect development.”
I looked at the grainy grayscale screen. A tiny profile appeared: curved head, miniature hands tucked near the face, tiny feet kicking against the amniotic wall.
May you like
What I didn’t know then—what Dr. Lawson didn’t see—was that on the other side of the heavy mahogany door, Adrian Moretti had not walked away. He stood with his forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the muffled, frantic rhythm of his child’s heart through the crack of the jamb, his hand trembling against the brass handle he wasn't allowed to turn.
***
