Chapter 3 - SEVEN CALLS HE COULD NEVER ANSWER
Alexander Moretti had never been afraid of an empty house.
Until Claire left.
The mansion had always been quiet.
He liked it that way.
Silence meant control.
Silence meant nobody was demanding explanations.
But that night, the silence felt different.
There were no footsteps upstairs.
No cartoons playing in Ethan's bedroom.
No sound of Claire asking whether he wanted dinner.
Alexander stood in the kitchen and stared at the refrigerator.
A drawing was attached to the door with a blue magnet.
Three stick figures.
Mommy.
Daddy.
Ethan.
Above them, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
MY FAMILY.
Alexander reached for the paper.
Then stopped.
He remembered Ethan's face.
The way his son had looked at him when he'd demanded an apology.
Not frightened.
Disappointed.
Alexander had seen that expression on grown men before.
Usually just before they stopped trusting him.
He pulled out his phone.
Seven missed calls.
Twelve messages.
He opened them.
Read each one.
Slowly.
Then read them again.
At 10:47 p.m., Claire had written:
Mom says she wants to see you. Please come.
At 11:08:
The doctors say she doesn't have much time.
At 11:52:
Alexander, she's dying.
And at 12:14:
She's gone. Ethan was holding her hand.
Alexander sat down.
He had spent that night at Sophia's townhouse.
He remembered the expensive sheets.
The half-empty champagne bottle.
The way Sophia had silenced his phone and told him Claire was being dramatic.
He'd believed her.
Or perhaps he'd wanted to.
Because believing Sophia meant he didn't have to get out of bed.
His stomach turned.
He called Sophia.
She answered immediately.
“Alexander?”
“Did Claire tell you her mother was dying?”
A pause.
“Alexander, we already discussed—”
“Answer me.”
Sophia sighed.
“She said her mother was very ill.”
“Did she say she needed me at the hospital?”
Silence.
“Sophia.”
“Yes.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
“Why didn't you wake me?”
“Because you were exhausted.”
“She died.”
“I know.”
“My son watched her die.”
Sophia's voice hardened.
“And that's tragic. But you can't blame me for everything.”
Alexander stood.
“You told me Claire was exaggerating.”
“She always wants your attention.”
He stared at the wall.
For years, he'd accepted that explanation.
Claire was emotional.
Claire was demanding.
Claire didn't understand business.
But tonight he remembered something else.
Claire had never called him seven times in a row.
Not once.
Not in seven years.
He ended the call.
Then walked upstairs.
Ethan's room was immaculate.
His school uniform hung behind the door.
A book lay open beside his bed.
Alexander picked it up.
On the first page, Ethan had written:
Grandma says brave people tell the truth.
May you like
Alexander sat on the mattress.
And for the first time since becoming the most powerful man in his family, he couldn't think of a single order that would fix what he'd done.
