Chapter 2 - The Ambush at Little Harbor
The next morning, the offices of Little Harbor Kitchen in Lincoln Park were quiet, smelling of roasted sweet potatoes and cinnamon.
I was at my desk, reviewing our distribution schedule for the local preschools, when my assistant, Sarah, burst in, her face pale.
"Claire," she whispered, looking over her shoulder. "There's... there's a man here. He says he’s Adrian Mercer. He has three lawyers with him, and they’re refusing to leave the lobby."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I stood up, smoothing the front of my cream blazer. "Show them into the conference room, Sarah. And call our legal counsel, Marcus."
When I walked into the glass-walled conference room, Adrian was pacing the floor. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the expensive watch I had saved for three months to buy him for our third anniversary.
Beside him sat three men in identical dark suits, holding thick leather folders.
"Claire," Adrian said, turning sharply as the door closed. "Thank God. We need to talk. Now."
"You have five minutes, Adrian," I said, sitting at the head of the table. "And your lawyers can wait outside."
Adrian signaled his team, and they filed out without a word. Once we were alone, he leaned over the table, his storm-gray eyes burning with a mixture of desperation and fury.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "Triplets, Claire! My children! You let me believe you had an affair and ran off with some investor's money!"
"An affair?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Is that what your mother told you, Adrian? Or was that the story Vanessa fabricated while she was busy intercepting my medical records from Northwestern Memorial?"
Adrian froze. "What are you talking about?"
"Five years ago, when I was admitted for emergency pre-eclampsia, I called your private line forty times," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "The only person who answered was Vanessa. She told me you were at a gala with her, and that you didn't want to be disturbed by a 'lying, manipulative gold-digger.' She said you had already signed the divorce papers."
"No," Adrian shook his head, his face turning pale. "No, Vanessa told me you had packed your bags and moved to Europe with a French chef. My mother showed me the bank transfers!"
"Your mother created those transfers, Adrian," I said, sliding my tablet across the table. On the screen was the audio file from last night, alongside a digitized copy of my hospital admission records and the call logs from my old phone. "I never took a dime of Mercer money. I built this company with my own hands, while raising three infants on five hours of sleep a week. You didn't care enough to search for the truth. You just believed what was convenient."
Adrian stared at the screen, his breathing shallow. "Claire... I swear to you, I didn't know. If I had known..."
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"But you didn't," I said, standing up. "And now, you have a fiancée waiting for you. Go back to your gilded life, Adrian. Leave us alone."
"I can't do that," he whispered, looking up at me, his eyes filled with a raw, agonizing regret. "They are my blood. I'm going to file for joint custody, Claire. I have to."
