Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the PastTwenty-four hours earlier, I had walked out of that New York fertility clinic into the grey Manhattan drizzle, my chest burning as if I had swallowed glass.
The specialist’s words weren't just a revelation; they were a grenade tossed into the foundation of my entire adult life. If I was fertile—hyper-fertile, according to the medical charts—then Nicole’s inability to conceive during our three-year marriage hadn't been her fault either.
Or, more terrifyingly, she hadn't been the one being targeted.
I drove straight to a private investigator’s office in a bleak corner of Queens. Marcus Vance was an old-school operative who didn't ask questions unless the retainer check cleared, and mine had cleared five minutes after wire transfer.
"Dig up everything on Nicole Vance’s medical history," I had told him, slamming a thick folder onto his scarred wooden desk. "And while you’re at it, run a background check on my current wife, Emily Shaw, prior to our marriage in Chicago. Every doctor’s visit, every prescription, every private ledger."
Marcus had raised a grizzled eyebrow, pulling a toothpick from his mouth. "You sure you want to open that Pandora's box, Mr. Moretti? Rich guys like you usually prefer the illusion."
"The illusion is dead, Marcus," I replied, my voice dropping an octave. "Find out who killed it."
Now, sitting at Lumière, my phone vibrated softly against my thigh. A single notification flashed on the encrypted screen.
Vance PI: Files are in your inbox. Grab a drink and lock your doors, boss. You’re going to need it.
May you like
I looked up from the screen just as Emily waved a graceful hand to catch the waiter's attention. "Julian, let's go home. You're acting bizarre, and the atmosphere in here is suffocating."
"Home," I repeated, tasting the word like ash. "Yes, Emily. Let's go home to our empty penthouse. Let's talk about legacies."
