Chapter 3 - The Depths of Winter
Six months passed.
Winter in New York was unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the ice in my soul.
My trial was pending, but through a high-stakes negotiation led by Arthur and a team of crisis managers, I signed over every personal asset I possessed—my stock options, my savings, my sports cars, and my share of the Greenwich house—to Vance Enterprises and the court-monitored trust for Noah. In exchange, Richard Vance agreed not to pursue maximum federal prison time, allowing me to enter a diversion program with three years of probation, five thousand hours of community service, and complete financial restitution.
I was broke. Unemployable in corporate America. A disgraced pariah.
I moved into a tiny, damp studio apartment in Astoria, Queens. I took a job working the night shift at a twenty-four-hour commercial bakery, hauling hundred-pound sacks of flour and scrubbing industrial ovens until my hands were raw and blistered.
The physical pain was a relief. It kept my mind from consuming itself.
Every Tuesday morning, I attended court-ordered anger management and therapy sessions. Every Thursday evening, I attended AA meetings, stripping away the alcohol reliance I had used to mask my cowardice.
My legal team had filed multiple petitions for supervised visitation with Noah, but Claire’s lawyers blocked every single one. Under the terms of the temporary restraining order, I wasn't allowed to see my son, hear his voice, or know where they were living.
My only connection to my family was a thick leather journal I bought at a local pharmacy.
Every night after my shift at the bakery, sitting under the flickering fluorescent light of my tiny kitchen, I wrote to Noah.
Dear Noah, I wrote on a rainy Tuesday in January. Today you are seven months old. The doctor at your four-month checkup said you were in the 90th percentile for height. I wonder if you look like your mother now. I hope you do. She has the kindest eyes in the world, even when she is destroying a man who hurt her. I tried to walk past a toy store today, but I couldn't look inside. I don't deserve to buy you teddy bears. I only deserve to work until my fingers bleed so I can pay back every cent I stole from your grandfather’s trust.
One morning in late February, as I was sweeping the snow off the sidewalk outside the bakery, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb.
The rear window rolled down. Inside sat Richard Vance.
He looked thinner, his hair completely white, but his eyes were sharp as flint.
"Get in, Julian," he said coldly.
I set my broom against the brick wall, wiped my snowy boots, and climbed into the back seat.
"Mr. Vance," I said, keeping my head bowed. "If this is about the monthly restitution payment, the bank transfer was sent on the first—"
"I didn't come here about money," Richard interrupted, staring out the window. "Claire is sick."
My heart stopped. Panic, cold and sharp, seized my throat. "What? What's wrong with her? Is it Noah—?"
"Noah is fine," Richard snapped, turning to look at me. "Claire has acute pneumonia. She ignored a respiratory infection for three weeks because she was working eighty hours a week running our European expansion team and taking care of the baby alone. She collapsed at her desk yesterday morning. She’s in the ICU at Mount Sinai."
I couldn't speak. Tears filled my eyes.
"She refused to hire a full-time nanny," Richard continued, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "She insists on doing everything herself. She’s burning herself alive out of anger and pride, Julian. Because she’s terrified that if she lets her guard down for one second, someone will hurt that child again."
"Can I see her?" I choked out, grabbing his arm. "Please, Richard. I don't want anything from her. Just let me help. Let me sit outside her room. Let me take care of Noah—"
Richard looked down at my hand on his sleeve—my hand, calloused, scarred, and covered in flour dust, devoid of my former ten-thousand-dollar watch.
"If you attempt to see her, her legal team will have you arrested for violating the protective order," Richard said quietly. "But Noah is staying with my wife at our estate in Bedford for the weekend."
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small piece of paper, and laid it on the leather seat between us.
"My wife takes her afternoon walk at two o'clock," Richard whispered. "She leaves the baby with his nurse in the garden pavilion for thirty minutes."
He looked into my eyes, his expression unreadable. "If I ever find out you brought Vanessa Cole near my grandson, I will kill you myself."
The car stopped. The driver unlocked the door.
May you like
I grabbed the piece of paper. "Thank you, sir," I sobbed.
"Don't thank me," Richard said as I stepped out into the freezing wind. "Thank your wife. She refused to let the lawyers take your parental rights away completely. She told the judge that even a broken man deserves a chance to redeem his soul."
