THE LAST MORETTI WIFE

PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO DISAPPEARED

Vincent stared at me as though I had just committed an unforgivable crime.

“Elena, stop this nonsense.”

He reached for the velvet box containing Noah’s ashes, but I stepped backward.

“Don’t touch him.”

His hand froze.

For a moment, something unfamiliar crossed his face. Perhaps it was surprise. Perhaps he had finally realized that I wasn’t going to obey him.

“You’re my wife,” he said coldly. “You can’t simply walk away whenever you feel like it.”

I looked down at the wedding ring on my finger.

“Not anymore.”

I placed the ring on the table beside the divorce papers.

Vincent laughed bitterly.

“You think signing a few papers makes you independent? You have no family, no business, and nowhere to go. Everything you have belongs to the Morettis.”

I nodded slowly.

“Then I suppose I have nothing to lose.”

His expression darkened.

“You’re being emotional because of Noah. I’ll arrange for you to see a psychiatrist.”

“No, Vincent. I’m dying.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He stared at me.

“What?”

“I have terminal brain cancer. The doctors gave me one month.”

Silence filled the chapel.

Vincent looked at his mother, then back at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I almost laughed.

“When was I supposed to? Between your vacation with Sofia and your complaints about our dead son?”

“Elena!”

His voice echoed through the chapel.

But I was already tired.

I picked up Noah’s photograph and walked toward the door.

This time, nobody stopped me.

Outside, a black car was waiting.

Evelyn had arranged it.

Before I got inside, she approached me quietly.

“There’s something you should know.”

I turned.

“Your parents left something for you before they died. A trust fund. Your father instructed his lawyer to release it when you turned thirty.”

I frowned.

“I never knew.”

“Vincent didn’t know either. I kept the documents because I believed you would eventually need them.”

She handed me a small envelope.

Inside was a letter from my father and the documents for an estate worth nearly forty million dollars.

I stared at the papers.

My parents had protected me even after death.

For the first time in seven days, I cried for a reason other than losing Noah.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Evelyn lowered her head.

“I’m sorry, Elena.”

I didn’t answer.

Some apologies arrived too late to change anything.

That evening, I left New York.

I rented a small house overlooking a quiet lake in Vermont. It had white curtains, a fireplace, and a garden where Noah would have loved to play.

I placed his photograph beside my bed.

Then I called the lawyer handling my father’s estate.

“I want to establish a foundation,” I said. “For children who need expensive medical treatment and families who cannot afford it.”

“How much would you like to donate?”

I looked at Noah’s smiling face.

“Everything I don’t need.”

Meanwhile, back in New York, Vincent was becoming increasingly irritated.

He called me seventeen times.

I didn’t answer.

He sent messages.

Come home. We need to discuss the divorce.

Then:

Elena, stop behaving like a child.

Finally:

If you don’t return by tomorrow, I’ll have my lawyers find you.

I turned off my phone.

For the first time in five years, I slept peacefully.

But Vincent Moretti wasn’t a man accustomed to being ignored.

And he was about to discover that his wife had left behind far more than a wedding ring.