Chapter 9 - The Ultimate Choice
Winter arrived in Chicago with the fury of an arctic gale. Lake Michigan froze along the shorelines, and the city’s concrete canyons became funnels of ice and snow.
The riverfront cultural pavilion project was progressing at breakneck speed. Julian Vance’s faith in my vision had paid off: the city design commission had unanimously approved the blueprints, and the foundation groundbreaking was set for the following spring.
Julian had been a steady, respectful presence in my life. He took me to dinners at quiet bistros, listened with genuine fascination as I talked about light wells and sustainable materials, and never once pushed for more than I was ready to give.
"You’re distant tonight, Claire," Julian observed gently, setting down his wine glass across from me at an intimate Italian restaurant in Lincoln Park.
It was mid-December. Outside, snow was dusting the frosted windows.
"I'm sorry, Julian," I said, offering an apologetic smile. "I’m just... watching the snow. Lily has an ear infection, and Vincent has been up with her half the night."
Julian studied me for a long moment, the candlelight reflecting in his gray eyes.
"He’s doing well with her, isn't he?" Julian asked without bitterness.
"He is," I admitted honestly. "He took three weeks off during the restructuring. He takes her to the library on Saturdays. He bought a minivan, Julian. Vincent Moretti, who used to refuse to ride in anything that wasn't an armored Maybach, bought an electric minivan because Lily liked the panoramic sun-roof."
Julian laughed softly, a bittersweet sound. "A reformed billionaire is a dangerous competitor, Claire. Especially one who realizes what he lost."
"It isn't a competition, Julian," I said softly.
"Isn't it?" Julian smiled gently, reaching across the table and resting his hand over mine. "Claire, you are an extraordinary woman. Working with you has been the highlight of my professional year, and spending time with you has been the highlight of my personal life. But I am not a fool. When you look at the city skyline at night, you aren't looking at the buildings. You’re looking for his lights."
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed violently on the white linen tablecloth.
It was Elena Foster.
I picked it up immediately. "Elena? What’s wrong?"
"Claire, turn on CNBC," Elena said, her voice tight, urgent, and sharp. "Now."
Julian signaled the waiter, who immediately switched the small television above the bar to the financial news network.
A red banner was flashing across the bottom of the screen: *BREAKING: HOSTILE TAKEOVER BID FOR MORETTI TECHNOLOGIES BY SHENZHEN-GLOBAL CAPITAL.*
The news anchor’s voice filled the quiet restaurant: *"...a shocking late-breaking development as a consortium of international private equity firms, allegedly advised by former Moretti CLO Isabella Romano, has launched an aggressive, four-billion-dollar tender offer for all outstanding public shares of Moretti Tech. The consortium claims to have locked up forty-two percent of secondary voting rights through shell entities registered in the Cayman Islands. A mandatory shareholder confirmation vote is scheduled for tomorrow morning at nine o'clock in New York..."*
I caught my breath. "Isabella," I whispered.
"She’s executing the scorched-earth contingency," Julian said, his eyes narrowing as he read the ticker tape. "She sold her insider knowledge of Moretti’s secondary share distribution to an overseas predatory fund. If Vincent doesn't fly to New York tonight to rally the institutional investors, the takeover triggers automatically at market open. He’ll lose the entire company."
My phone buzzed again.
This time, the screen flashed: *Dr. Kensington — St. Bartholomew’s.*
"Hello?" I answered, panic instantly replacing corporate intrigue.
"Mrs. Moretti!" Dr. Kensington’s voice was barely audible over the sound of a blaring fire alarm. "I’m calling from the urgent care facility on Fullerton! Lily’s ear infection spiked into a sudden high fever during the after-school program, and she had an allergic reaction to the new antibiotic! Her throat is swelling, the paramedics are prepping her for transfer to Children’s Memorial—"
"I’m on my way!" I screamed, dropping the phone, knocking my chair backward as I scrambled for my coat.
"Claire, take my car, I’ll drive you," Julian said, immediately throwing a stack of bills onto the table and grabbing his coat.
We sprinted through the snowy streets to Julian’s car.
As Julian navigated the treacherous, icy roads toward Children's Memorial, my hands shook violently. I pulled up my contacts and dialed Vincent’s private line.
*He’s on his way to New York,* the voice in my head whispered, cold and sickening. *The board vote is in twelve hours. Four billion dollars is on the line. Isabella is taking his company. He’s on a private jet.*
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Every second felt like an eternity. I remembered the night at Northwestern three weeks earlier. I remembered the empty phone lines, the voicemail boxes, the unanswered screams into the dark.
*Pick up. Please, Vincent. Choose her. Just this once, choose her.*
The line clicked.
"Claire?"
Vincent’s voice came through, clear, grounded, and breathless. In the background, I heard the roar of jet engines and the frantic shouting of corporate executives.
"Vincent," I choked out, tears finally blinding me. "It’s Lily. She’s at Children’s Memorial. Her throat is swelling, an allergic reaction to the medicine, they’re taking her into trauma—"
"I’m at O’Hare," Vincent said.
My heart plummeted into the icy depths of my stomach. *He’s at the airport. He’s getting on the plane to New York. The company won.*
"Vincent, the news... the takeover..." I sobbed, unable to hold back the grief. "Isabella is taking the company—"
"I don't give a damn about the company," Vincent cut me off, his voice roaring through the phone with an absolute, terrifying ferocity. "Arthur! Tell the pilots to shut the engines down! Cancel the New York flight!"
I froze, clutching the phone to my ear.
Over the line, I heard Arthur Campbell’s frantic voice shouting: *“Vincent, are you insane?! If you don't board that jet, Shenzhen-Global takes the voting majority at nine AM! You will lose your life’s work!”*
*"Then let them take it!"* Vincent screamed back, his voice echoing through the private terminal hangar. *"Tell them to burn the servers! Tell them to take the shares! My daughter is in the hospital!"*
The sound of car doors slamming came over the phone, followed by the roar of an engine accelerating violently.
"Claire," Vincent’s voice returned to the line, steady, fiercely focused, and vibrating with an authority no boardroom had ever seen. "I’m in the car. I’m running every red light on the Kennedy Expressway. I have emergency flashers on. I will be at Children’s Memorial in twelve minutes. Don't be afraid. We are going to save our baby."
The line stayed open.
May you like
I sat in Julian’s passenger seat, listening to the sound of Vincent’s tires screaming against the ice, tears pouring down my face—not tears of terror, but the overwhelming, shattering realization that the man on the other end of the phone had finally slain his own ghost.
***
