Chapter 4 - The Anatomy of a High-Class Sabotage
Luca stood frozen, his mind visibly racing through seven months of meticulously constructed deception.
“Sit down,” he said suddenly, his voice thick with urgent concern.
“You’ve been standing too long. Your ankles are swollen.”
“I don't need your pity, Luca,” I replied, though the dull ache in my lower back was intensifying by the second.
“It isn't pity,” he said roughly, grabbing a comfortable velvet rocking chair from an adjacent display and dragging it behind me.
“Sit down, Isabella. Please. If not for you, for her.”
The mention of our baby girl softened my stubborn resistance just enough.
I slowly lowered myself into the plush cushions, resting both hands over the rounded swell of my belly.
Luca dropped to one knee on the hardwood floor right beside the chair.
The sight of Luca Moretti—a man who commanded boardrooms with a single glance—kneeling in a baby store in a two-thousand-dollar suit was surreal.
He looked at my belly, his hands hovering an inch above the fabric, trembling with the desperate urge to touch.
“May I?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“No,” I said firmly.
He swallowed hard and pulled his hands back, resting them against his knees.
“You have every right to despise me,” he said, looking up into my face.
“I failed the first test of love: trust.”
“You didn't just fail to trust me, Luca. You executed me without a trial.”
“I was presented with hotel check-in logs under your name,” he explained, the agony evident in every syllable.
“Surveillance stills of someone wearing that emerald coat I bought you in Milan entering room 814 with Julian Thorne.”
At the name Julian Thorne, I felt a shockwave reverberate through my entire body.
“Julian?” I gasped.
“My college friend Julian who runs a non-profit in Chicago?”
“Yes,” Luca said bitterly.
“The photographs showed him holding the door open, wrapping an arm around the woman's waist.”
“Julian is gay, Luca!” I nearly shouted, leaning forward in the rocking chair.
“He’s been married to his partner David for three years! You attended their private wedding reception in Martha’s Vineyard!”
Luca’s jaw dropped.
He looked as if the earth had opened up beneath his feet.
“The man in the photographs had his back turned to the camera,” Luca said, his voice shaking violently.
“The report stated it was Julian Thorne based on digital credit card matches.”
“Whose credit card matches?” I demanded.
“The corporate card Vanessa authorized for the foundation committee,” Luca whispered, connecting the dots in real time.
“She used my foundation funds to rent that suite.”
“She bought an exact replica of your emerald coat.”
“She paid an actress or a body double to stage the entry.”
“And she paid a dirty investigator to forge a digital trail implicating you and Julian.”
Tears of pure fury leaked down my cheeks.
To think that a woman’s entire life could be shattered by a few rented props and malicious timing was horrifying.
“Why would she go to such lengths?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“We were polite to her. I invited her to Thanksgiving dinner when her mother passed away!”
“Because she has been obsessively targeting my family's seat on the board for five years,” Luca said coldly.
“Her father's company, Sinclair Maritime, is drowning in subprime debt.”
“She knew that marrying me was the only way to save her family from total bankruptcy and social ruin.”
“And I was the inconvenient obstacle in the middle of her financial rescue plan,” I concluded.
“You were my wife,” Luca corrected, reaching out instinctively before catching himself.
“You were the only woman who ever loved me for who I was when the portfolio collapsed in 2022.”
“You were the only person who stayed awake with me when I had pneumonia in that tiny apartment before the merger.”
“And yet, an envelope with a few grainy photos was all it took to erase four years,” I whispered.
Luca bowed his head, his forehead resting against the arm of the velvet chair.
I heard a muffled sound—the sound of a proud man choking back a sob.
“I thought you hated me,” he whispered against the fabric.
“I thought you had taken one look at my insane schedule, my constant travel, my emotional distance, and decided you wanted out.”
“I convinced myself that you chose Julian because he was gentle, because he didn't carry the blood and dirt of corporate warfare.”
“So your pride took over,” I said.
“My pride destroyed my life,” he answered, raising his head to look at me, his eyes wet and bloodshot.
“The moment Vanessa told me you wanted nothing to do with me, my pride turned into poison.”
“I signed whatever documents were put in front of me because looking at them felt like dying.”
“I never read the fine print, Isabella.”
“I assumed Arthur had protected you financially with the fifty-million-dollar trust we set up during our estate planning.”
“I didn't know she substituted the files.”
“She had access to my executive desk, my private seal, and my notary stamps.”
The boutique door opened again with a chime, breaking the heavy tension.
A young woman carrying a clipboard walked in, looking nervously at the manager before spotting Luca.
“Mr. Moretti?” she called tentatively.
Luca stood up, wiping his face with a clean linen handkerchief, the CEO mask snapping back into place with terrifying speed.
“Are you Marcus Hayes’s associate?” Luca demanded.
“Yes, sir,” she said, handing over a heavy, encrypted tablet.
May you like
“Mr. Hayes pulled the Mercer Hotel surveillance backups from the city’s archived transit servers.”
“He said you need to see this immediately.”
