Chapter 7 - THE LETTER SHE ALMOST BURNED
Claire read my letter three weeks later.
I know because Rachel told me.
She didn't tell me what Claire thought.
She didn't have to.
The silence was answer enough.
Claire was transferred from intensive care to a rehabilitation unit.
She could walk short distances with assistance.
Her speech had returned.
But she suffered nightmares.
Sometimes she woke convinced someone was standing beside her bed.
Sometimes she refused to close her eyes.
And sometimes she asked the nurses to check the door three times before leaving.
Rachel recommended trauma counseling.
Claire agreed.
I stayed away unless she invited me.
I paid the medical expenses through the arrangements already in place, but I stopped sending gifts.
No flowers.
No jewelry.
No expensive apologies.
I had spent years believing money could soften every consequence.
Now I was learning that some wounds required something money couldn't provide.
Time.
Truth.
And respect.
One afternoon, Claire's attorney contacted mine.
She wanted access to her personal accounts.
Her belongings.
And the documents she'd collected before the attack.
I agreed immediately.
I also authorized the release of relevant financial records to investigators.
Some implicated me.
Samuel warned me.
"Vincent, this could expose you to prosecution."
I nodded.
"Then it should."
Two days later, Claire asked to see me.
I arrived at the rehabilitation center carrying nothing.
No flowers.
No promises.
Just myself.
She sat near the window wearing a pale blue sweater.
Her hair was shorter now.
Her face thinner.
But her eyes were clear.
I stopped in the doorway.
"Claire."
She looked up.
"Sit."
I sat opposite her.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she held up my letter.
"I read it."
I nodded.
"Thank you."
She looked at me.
"Do you know what hurt the most?"
I swallowed.
"What?"
"Not Vanessa."
I stared.
"Not even the lies."
Her voice trembled.
"It was realizing I could have disappeared from your life, and you might not have noticed until somebody called."
I closed my eyes.
"You're right."
She studied me.
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What else can I say?"
"I don't know."
Her eyes filled.
"Part of me wanted you to argue. To tell me I was wrong."
I shook my head.
"You weren't."
She looked away.
"I loved you, Vincent."
The past tense broke something inside me.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
She turned back.
"I loved you when you came home angry. I loved you when you forgot our anniversary dinner. I loved you when you stopped asking how my day was."
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"And I hated myself for loving you when I knew you were with someone else."
I couldn't speak.
She wiped her face.
"I don't want to hate myself anymore."
I nodded.
"You shouldn't."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then said, "I need a separation."
My chest tightened.
"Okay."
She blinked.
"Okay?"
"Yes."
"You're not going to fight me?"
I shook my head.
"Not for control over your life."
She began crying again.
I wanted to hold her.
I didn't move.
When I left, I sat in my car for nearly an hour.
Theo waited behind the wheel.
Finally, he asked, "Where to, boss?"
I looked out the window.
"Home."
He nodded.
Then I added, "Not the estate."
Theo glanced back.
"Where, then?"
I swallowed.
"The small apartment on Mercer Street."
It was the first property I'd bought with money I earned myself.
Before the mansions.
Before the empire.
Before I'd forgotten what mattered.
May you like
I moved in that night.
And for the first time in years, I slept alone.
