THE LAST MORETTI WIFE

Part 2 — The Message He Was Never Meant to Hear

I left the Moretti mansion that evening with one suitcase, Noah’s photograph, and the small velvet box containing his ashes.

Vincent didn’t follow me.

Instead, he stood by the staircase, watching as his mother handed me my coat.

“You’re making a mistake, Elena,” he said coldly.

I paused at the door.

“No, Vincent. My mistake was staying.”

Then I walked out.

Outside, the rain was falling heavily. My driver, an elderly man named Thomas, opened the car door and gently took my suitcase.

“Where to, Mrs. Moretti?”

I looked at the photograph in my hands.

“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with trees and a lake.”

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He nodded without asking another question.

For the first time in five years, nobody told me what to do.

That night, I checked into a small lakeside hotel outside Boston. The room was modest, with white curtains, wooden furniture, and a balcony overlooking the water.

It was beautiful.

I placed Noah’s ashes on the bedside table and sat beside them.

“Mommy kept her promise, sweetheart,” I whispered. “We’re going somewhere peaceful.”

My phone rang.

Vincent.

I watched his name flash across the screen until the call ended.

Then a message appeared.

Vincent: Come home tomorrow. We need to discuss this divorce nonsense.

Another message followed.

Vincent: And stop taking Noah’s ashes around. He belongs in the Moretti family cemetery.

I stared at the screen.

Even now, he was more concerned about the family name than his son.

I turned off my phone.

The following morning, I visited my oncologist.

Dr. Harris had treated me for several months and was one of the few people who knew about my diagnosis.

He looked at my latest scans and sighed.

“Elena, the cancer is progressing faster than we expected.”

“How much time?”

He hesitated.

“Possibly three weeks. Maybe less.”

I nodded.

“I understand.”

“Have you told your husband?”

I looked out the window.

“We’re divorced.”

He didn’t question me.

Instead, he handed me a small envelope.

“Your son asked me to keep something for you. He said it was for his father, but only when you thought the time was right.”

My heart stopped.

Inside was a small USB drive.

I remembered that night.

Noah had been in the hospital, his tiny hand wrapped around my finger.

He had asked the nurse whether he could leave a message for Daddy.

I had thought it was simply a child’s wish.

Now I understood.

I pressed the USB against my chest.

“Thank you.”

Back in my hotel room, I opened my laptop.

A video appeared.

Noah was sitting in his hospital bed, wearing his favorite blue dinosaur pajamas. His cheeks were thinner than before, but his eyes still held that familiar sparkle.

“Hi, Daddy.”

I covered my mouth.

Noah smiled shyly.

“Mommy says you’re very busy. But I wanted to tell you something.”

He paused, looking toward someone behind the camera.

Then he continued.

“Daddy, I don’t want you to be sad if I go to heaven. Mommy says angels don’t hurt anymore.”

My tears fell onto the keyboard.

“But I wanted you to come see me. I waited for you on my birthday. And on the day they took my blood. And when I couldn’t breathe.”

He lowered his head.

“I asked Mommy if you didn’t love me.”

A long silence followed.

Then Noah looked directly into the camera.

“She said you loved me very much.”

His little voice became softer.

“But Daddy, if you loved me, why didn’t you come?”

The video ended.

I couldn’t breathe.

I closed the laptop and held Noah’s photograph against my chest.

That was the message Vincent would have to hear someday.

Not because I wanted revenge.

But because Noah deserved to be remembered as more than an heir.

Meanwhile, in New York, Vincent Moretti was having dinner with Sofia.

She was wearing a diamond necklace he had purchased for her in Iceland.

“Vincent, are you listening?”

He glanced up.

“What?”

“Elena is being ridiculous. She actually left the mansion.”

Vincent placed his glass down.

“She’ll come back.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

He gave a dismissive smile.

“She has nowhere else to go.”

Sofia smiled and reached for his hand.

“That’s why I love you. You always know how to handle difficult situations.”

His phone vibrated.

A message from his assistant appeared.

The divorce papers have been finalized. Mrs. Moretti has officially resumed her maiden name: Elena Carter.

Vincent frowned.

He read it twice.

“Elena Carter?”

For some reason, seeing her name without his surname irritated him.

“What’s wrong?” Sofia asked.

“Nothing.”

He put the phone away.

Then he ordered another bottle of champagne.

He had no idea that Elena Carter was already running out of time.

And he had no idea that his son’s final words were waiting for him.