Part 6

In one image, he had his arm around my shoulders.

The caption described a secret late-night meeting.

The truth had been almost painfully dull.

I had just learned that Dominic intended to file for separation.

Daniel had found me crying outside the restaurant and hugged me.

Someone had photographed us at precisely the right angle.

“Isabella gave me those photos,” Dominic said.

I looked at him.

“She told you she took them?”

“No.”

“She said they had been sent to her anonymously.”

Samuel frowned.

“That part may have been true.”

Dominic looked at him.

“Why?”

“Because I saw the envelope.”

“When?”

“The day it arrived.”

“Who sent it?”

“There was no return address.”

I felt a new unease.

For days, Isabella had seemed like the center of every secret.

Now another shadow had appeared behind her.

Dominic folded his mother’s letter carefully.

“Where is Isabella now?”

Samuel sighed.

“I don’t know.”

Dominic took out his phone.

He called once.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

He looked at me.

“She left the hotel after we spoke.”

“You spoke to her?”

“This morning.”

“What did she say?”

“That I was choosing you over her again.”

“Again?”

Dominic leaned back.

“She believed I loved you throughout the entire separation.”

I did not know what to do with that.

“Did you?”

The question escaped before I could stop it.

Dominic looked directly at me.

“Yes.”

Claire quietly left the kitchen.

Samuel suddenly became fascinated by his tea.

I stared at Dominic.

“You had an unusual way of demonstrating it.”

“I was angry.”

“So was I.”

“I was humiliated.”

“So was I.”

“I believed you had lied to me.”

“And I believed you had abandoned your children.”

He absorbed that.

“Neither of us knew the truth.”

“No.”

“But you could have found it.”

“Yes.”

“So could I.”

“Yes.”

Neither of us looked away.

That was the first genuinely honest conversation we had shared in years.

There was no dramatic apology capable of repairing everything.

There was no declaration that erased our failures.

There was simply truth.

Small.

Painful.

Necessary.

The children met Samuel two days later.

Not because I planned it.

Lucy insisted on visiting Claire after learning that her aunt possessed a new litter of kittens at school.

Samuel happened to be there.

He sat on Claire’s porch while Eli demonstrated the correct pronunciation of dinosaur names.

Lucy put flowers in the brim of his hat.

Something softened in Samuel.

Perhaps guilt becomes heavier around children because they embody all the years adults cannot recover.

Dominic arrived shortly afterward.

He had started visiting carefully.

Never without calling.

Never demanding.

He came for an hour the first day.

Ninety minutes the next.

He learned that Lucy hated peas but loved green beans.

He learned Eli slept with the hallway light on.

He learned neither child liked loud thunder.

He learned that Lucy wanted to be an architect, veterinarian, astronaut, and bakery owner simultaneously.

He learned Eli believed his father knew everything about New York.

Dominic did not correct that misunderstanding quickly enough for my liking.

One afternoon, I found him sitting cross-legged on the carpet while Eli explained a plastic dinosaur battle with intense seriousness.

Dominic looked completely out of place in a tailored suit surrounded by toys.

He also looked more peaceful than I had ever seen him.

Lucy climbed into his lap without asking.

He froze.

Then slowly put one arm around her.

I walked away before he could see my expression.

Forgiveness remained far away.

But resentment had begun losing its sharpest edges.

Three days after Claire’s confession, Isabella contacted me.

Not Dominic.

Me.

Her message contained only an address and six words.

I need to tell you everything.

I showed Dominic.

He read it twice.

“You don’t have to go.”

“I know.”

“I can go.”

“She contacted me.”

He nodded.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Natalie.”

“This is not an order you get to give.”

He sighed.

“I know.”

That sentence alone proved five years had changed him too.

I met Isabella in a small café near Bryant Park.

She sat in a corner wearing jeans and a navy sweater.

Without diamonds or evening gowns, she looked younger.

And tired.

I sat opposite her.

“You wanted to talk.”

She looked at me.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“No.”

She blinked.

“You owe me the truth.”

Isabella lowered her eyes.

“You’re right.”

For several moments, she said nothing.

Then she began.

She admitted intercepting the letters.

She admitted forging Samuel’s name.

She admitted keeping Elena’s letter.

She admitted telling Claire that Dominic might challenge me for custody.

Each confession was delivered quietly.

Without excuses.

Finally, I asked the question that mattered.

“Why?”

Isabella looked toward the window.

“Because I thought if you had his children, he would never let you go.”

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he love you?”

“No.”

The honesty surprised me.

“He cared about me,” she continued.

“He trusted me professionally.”

“And you mistook that for something else.”

“I wanted it to become something else.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

For the first time, I understood her fear at the gala.

It had not been fear of punishment.

It had been fear of the life she had constructed collapsing under the weight of two small faces.

“I saw Lucy,” Isabella whispered, “and I knew immediately.”

“Because of Elena.”

She nodded.

“Elena was kind to me.”

The sadness in her voice startled me.

“That makes what you did worse.”

“I know.”

I believed she did.

Perhaps that was why I did not feel triumph.

Only sorrow.

Then I asked about the photographs.

Isabella’s expression changed.

“I didn’t take them.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I received them anonymously.”

“Why use them?”

“Because I was jealous.”

She swallowed.

“Because Dominic was already upset with you over the foundation accounts.”

I frowned.

“What foundation accounts?”

She stared at me.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Isabella leaned forward.

“The week before the photographs appeared, nearly two million dollars disappeared from the Moretti Foundation.”

My heart stopped.

“That’s impossible.”

“Dominic thought you authorized the transfer.”

“I didn’t.”

“He never told you?”

“No.”

She stared at me in disbelief.

“He thought you knew.”

I stood.

Isabella reached into her bag.

“Wait.”

She removed a folder.

“I found these while cleaning my father’s archive.”

“What are they?”

“Bank transfer records.”

I opened the folder.

My name appeared beside three authorization codes.

My signature appeared at the bottom.

It was not my signature.

I looked up.

“Who did this?”

Isabella shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

Then she slid one final page toward me.

It was an internal memo listing the person who had requested temporary access to my foundation authorization credentials.

I recognized the name immediately.

For the second time in less than a week, someone I loved appeared at the center of a secret I did not understand.

The request had been submitted by Daniel Harper.

The man Manhattan had called my lover.

The man who had comforted me throughout my divorce.

The man I had trusted for most of my life.

Daniel answered on the second ring.

“Natalie.”

He sounded pleased to hear from me.

That almost made it worse.

“We need to talk.”

A pause.

“All right.”

“About the Moretti Foundation.”