Chapter 2 - The Sound of Silence
The silence on the line stretched so tight it felt like a drawn bowstring. Through the receiver, I could hear the faint, hollow echoing of St. Bartholomew’s—the rustle of silk gowns, the low murmur of Manhattan’s elite, the sharp clink of crystal goblets being set down on silver trays. But Grant’s breathing had completely stopped.
"Claire," Grant’s voice came through the speaker again, stripped of all its former arrogant warmth. The smooth, rehearsed charm he used on boardrooms and reporters had vanished, replaced by a dark, jagged edge. "Whose baby is that?"
I held my daughter closer to my collarbone. Her tiny fingers, pale and dusted with newborn fuzz, curled around the neck of my hospital gown. She was warm, heavy, and completely oblivious to the man on the other end of the phone who had spent two years telling the world I was broken.
Before I could answer, Dominic Moretti took a single, unhurried step closer to the bed.
He didn't touch the phone. He didn't raise his voice. He simply reached out and rested his large, warm hand lightly over my trembling fingers. His skin was rough, scarred across the knuckles, radiating a grounded, solid heat that instantly cut through the cold panic threatening to seize my throat.
"She asked you a question, Kingsley," Dominic said softly. His tone wasn't loud, but it possessed that low, dangerous resonance that made men in bespoke suits rethink their entire lives. "You said you were getting married in an hour. Don't keep the bride waiting."
Silence crashed over the line again—harder this time.
Grant knew that voice. Anyone who owned real estate, private docks, or luxury hotels between Wall Street and Montauk knew that voice. Dominic Moretti didn't show up in Forbes. His family didn't host charity galas at the Met. But when the city's wealthiest men needed permits cleared through closed unions, or when private security firms needed specialized clearance, the Moretti name was whispered behind heavy oak doors.
"Moretti?" Grant’s breath hitched, a sudden, panicked hiss. "What the hell are you doing in my ex-wife's hospital room?"
Dominic didn't blink. He stared down at my daughter’s face, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening into pure steel as his eyes met mine.
"I'm sitting where a real father should be," Dominic said flatly.
"You bastard," Grant snarled, his composure shattering entirely. I could hear him pacing frantically on the marble steps outside the cathedral, his leather shoes clicking against the stone. "Claire! You cheating bitch! You were sleeping with him while we were still married?! You lied to the court! You lied to the press!"
The sheer nerve of him—the man who had brought Sienna Vale into our guest house under the guise of an 'executive assistant,' the man who had filed for divorce while I was undergoing fertility treatments, claiming to the tabloids that I was 'physically incapable' of giving him an heir—made a cold, sharp laugh tear out of my chest.
"I met Dominic three months after the divorce was finalized, Grant," I said, my voice steady, clearer than it had been in years. "The math isn't hard. Even for a man who hires accountants to hide his shell companies."
"That baby is mine!" Grant roared through the speaker. Someone in the background—likely his best man—shouted his name, reminding him that the photographers were waiting by the altar. Grant ignored him, his voice pitch-rising into pure hysteria. "She's mine! You hid my child from me! You think you can give a Kingsley child to a Moretti?!"
Dominic slowly reached down, took the phone from my hand, and brought it to his lips.
"Listen to me very carefully, Kingsley," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave into something deathly calm. "If you step foot near this hospital, if you print another lie about Claire in the press, or if you even think about putting your family's filthy name on this child's birth certificate... I will take everything you own. Starting with the logistics contract you just signed at Newark Port."
Grant went completely still. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," Dominic said softly. "Go get married, Grant. Party at The Plaza. Drink your expensive champagne. Because tomorrow morning... the bill comes due."
Dominic ended the call with a simple tap of his thumb and tossed the phone onto the nightstand.
I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Dominic... Newark Port? That's sixty percent of Kingsley Enterprises' revenue."
May you like
Dominic leaned down, gently tucking the cream blanket around my daughter's shoulders. His massive frame shadowed the bed, but there was no fear in it—only an impenetrable wall between me and the storm outside.
"I know," Dominic murmured, his thumb lightly brushing the baby's soft cheek. "And by eight o'clock tonight... it's going to belong to her."
