Chapter 1 - THE GLASS WALL
The world inside the five-star restaurant on Michigan Avenue dissolved into a static hum. The clinking of crystal glasses, the soft jazz playing from hidden speakers, and Evelyn’s poised, elegant voice—all of it collapsed into complete silence.
Through the towering floor-to-ceiling glass window, framed by the falling Chicago snow, stood Natalie.
She was wearing a simple, tailored beige coat, her hair tied back in a soft bun. She looked healthier, radiant in a way I had never seen during the bleak final years of our marriage. But it was not just her presence that struck a physical blow to my chest.
It was what she was holding.
Natalie lifted one of the babies—a tiny child wrapped in a powder-blue knitted blanket—and nestled the baby against her cheek, laughing softly as the snow dusted her coat. In the double stroller beside her, another small form, wrapped in pink, kicked its little legs beneath a heavy quilt.
Twins. A boy and a girl.
My vision blurred. My hands, resting on the white linen tablecloth, began to shake so violently that the silverware rattled.
“There is no fertility problem on your end, Mr. Moretti.”
The fertility doctor’s words in Manhattan echoed inside my skull, loud as thunder. Natalie had not been infertile. She had not been broken. She was capable of bringing life into the world. The issue had never been her body—it had been the toxic, cold environment I created, or perhaps a simple biological timing that fate had robbed from us. Or worse... someone had lied to us both.
"Luca?"
Evelyn’s voice sliced through the haze. She was staring at me, her dark eyebrows drawn together in polite concern. "Luca, what is wrong with you? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost."
I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. My eyes were glued to the glass window. Outside, a tall, well-dressed man stepped into the frame. He wore a charcoal overcoat, his posture comfortable and protective. He smiled warmly at Natalie, leaned down to kiss her forehead, and took hold of the stroller handles.
Natalie looked up at him, her eyes bright with a quiet, unconditional joy—the exact look she used to give me ten years ago when we were young, broke, and dreaming in a studio apartment.
They walked away down the snow-covered avenue, fading into the Chicago twilight like a dream slipping through my fingers.
"Luca!" Evelyn reached across the table, her manicured fingers pressing firmly into my wrist. Her tone had lost its sweet smoothness, replaced by a sharp edge of irritation. "Everyone is looking at us. Sit down properly."
I didn't even realize I had stood up.
I looked down at Evelyn. For three years, I had convinced myself that Evelyn was the ideal partner—a woman of high culture, impeccably suited for the chairman of Moretti Enterprises. But in that fraction of a second, looking into Evelyn’s calm, calculating eyes, a sudden, terrifying wave of revulsion washed over me.
"Who was that doctor, Evelyn?" I whispered, my voice sounding raspy, unfamiliar even to my own ears.
Evelyn blinked, thrown off guard. "What are you talking about? What doctor?"
"Dr. Vance," I said, stepping back from the table, knocking my chair slightly off balance. "The fertility specialist in Chicago you recommended four years ago. The one who gave us the initial diagnosis when Natalie and I were trying."
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. A microscopic tightening occurred around her jawline before her effortless composure returned. "Luca, that was years ago. Why are you bringing up your ex-wife's failure while we are having dinner?"
"Because she just walked past that window," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. "And she was pushing a stroller with twin babies."
Evelyn froze. The faint color in her cheeks drained away. For a fraction of a second, fear leaked through her polished facade before she covered it with a light, dismissive laugh.
"Well... good for her, I suppose," Evelyn said, picking up her wine glass. "Modern medicine works wonders these days. Donor eggs, surrogacy, late-stage treatments—who knows what length desperate women will go to? Now please, sit down. You're making a scene."
"I went to New York today, Evelyn," I said, ignoring her command completely.
Evelyn paused, the wine glass hovering halfway to her lips.
"I saw Dr. Harrison at Columbia Presbyterian," I continued, staring down at her. "I ran the panel again. All of it. He told me I was entirely fertile. He said there was never any medical reason why Natalie couldn't conceive with me."
The wine glass trembled slightly in Evelyn's hand. She set it back down on the table, her gaze hardening into something cold and defensive.
"What are you implying, Luca?"
"I’m implying," I said, stepping away from the table entirely, "that five years ago, someone manufactured a lie. Someone paid Dr. Vance to ensure my marriage to Natalie collapsed."
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"That is absurd!" Evelyn hissed under her breath, glancing around at the neighboring diners who were beginning to glance our way. "You are acting like a lunatic! You ruined your own marriage because you couldn't handle the pressure! Don't try to pin your guilt on me or some medical conspiracy!"
I didn't answer her. I didn't care about the dinner, the charity gala, or the powerful executives sitting in the room. I turned my back on my current wife, walked out of the restaurant, and stepped straight into the freezing Chicago snow, desperate to find the woman I had destroyed.
