Chapter 4 - I REFUSED VINCENT’S APARTMENTAfter surgery, Vincent offered me a place to stay.
Not his house.
A furnished apartment belonging to one of his legitimate real-estate companies.
Security downstairs.
No rent.
I said no.
He didn’t argue.
That surprised me.
Instead, I stayed with Nina Patel, the assistant manager at my restaurant.
Her Queens apartment had one bedroom, one bathroom, and a sofa that turned into a bed only if you kicked the frame in exactly the right place.
It was perfect.
Mine by permission.
Not obligation.
Vincent arranged nothing without asking.
That became important.
A domestic-relations attorney named Rebecca Sloan helped me request temporary protection from Derek.
A criminal case related to the assault began separately.
I filed for divorce.
That decision cost me financially almost immediately.
The penthouse was Derek’s premarital property.
My name was not on it.
Most of our liquid savings sat in accounts he controlled.
I had my own checking account but not enough to live in Manhattan alone while missing work because of my arm.
Vincent offered money.
I refused that too.
He said:
“Pride and independence are not the same thing.”
I answered:
“My mother would disagree.”
“She often did.”
I took short-term disability through work and used savings.
Nina charged me almost nothing.
I insisted on paying.
Small amount.
Real amount.
I needed boundaries I could see.
Then Derek started calling from unfamiliar numbers.
Rebecca told me not to engage.
His messages changed depending on the day.
I’m sorry.
You made me lose control.
Come home.
Your uncle is using you.
You think those people care about you?
Then:
Ask Vincent what I know about him.
That one was different.
I showed Vincent.
His expression did not change.
“Do you know what he means?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“You expect me to believe you don’t have secrets?”
“I have many.”
The answer was almost insulting in its calmness.
“But I don’t know which one Derek thinks he has.”
For once, I believed the uncertainty.
Then my restaurant’s owner called.
“Lena, there’s something weird.”
Derek had visited the restaurant while I was hospitalized.
He asked whether I kept personal files in the manager’s office.
He told staff we were reconciling.
We weren’t.
Then he asked one of the bartenders whether anyone from “the Moretti side” ever came to see me.
My stomach tightened.
Derek had not spent three years forgetting about my family connection.
May you like
He had been tracking it.
The question was why.
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