The Wife He Took for Granted

Part 2: The Wife Who Disappeared

Adrian Moretti had never believed I would actually leave him.

Not until he walked into our bedroom and found the divorce papers, my wedding ring, and an empty closet.

He picked up the documents, scanning the pages with growing disbelief.

Then he noticed the date.

Three weeks earlier.

“Claire,” he muttered, pulling out his phone.

He called me once.

No answer.

Twice.

Still nothing.

By the tenth call, his patience had vanished.

“Find her,” he ordered his head of security. “I want to know where she is within the hour.”

Sophia appeared in the doorway, wearing a worried expression.

“Adrian, perhaps you should give her some time. She’s probably staying with a friend.”

He turned toward her.

“Did you know she was planning this?”

Sophia froze.

“Of course not. Why would you ask me that?”

He studied her for a moment before looking away.

For the first time, her comforting presence did nothing to calm him.

Meanwhile, I sat in the back of a taxi, watching the lights of Chicago disappear behind me.

I had booked a small apartment under my maiden name and arranged for my belongings to be delivered there. No guards. No luxury cars. No one waiting to tell me what I could or couldn’t do.

My phone kept vibrating.

I finally switched it off.

Then I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.

For three years, I had mistaken Adrian’s control for protection and his expensive gifts for affection.

I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The following morning, I met my divorce attorney.

“Your husband will probably contest the divorce,” she warned. “Men like Adrian Moretti aren’t accustomed to being told no.”

“Then let him contest it.”

She opened another folder.

“There’s something else you should know. The financial records you brought me suggest that several charitable foundations connected to your family have been receiving suspicious transfers.”

I frowned.

“My family?”

Before marrying Adrian, I had inherited a modest investment portfolio from my late father. Adrian had offered to manage it through his financial team, claiming he could protect it better than anyone.

I had trusted him.

“Are you saying he took my money?”

“I’m saying we need to investigate.”

I stared at the documents, my hands slowly tightening.

It wasn’t just my heart he had taken for granted.

It might have been my trust, my inheritance, and everything my father had worked to leave me.

For the first time since leaving the mansion, I felt something stronger than sadness.

Determination.

“Find out everything,” I told my attorney.

That afternoon, Adrian finally discovered where I was staying.

He arrived outside my apartment building in a black Rolls-Royce, surrounded by two bodyguards.

When I stepped outside, he immediately approached me.

“Get in the car.”

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

“Claire, don’t make me repeat myself.”

I looked at him calmly.

“You’re not my husband anymore.”

“The divorce isn’t finalized.”

“Then consider this the beginning of our separation.”

He stared at me as if he couldn’t recognize the woman standing before him.

“You’re throwing away three years over a misunderstanding?”

“No, Adrian. I’m walking away after three years of misunderstandings you never cared enough to correct.”

For once, he had no immediate answer.

Then his eyes dropped to my bare finger.

“You left your ring.”

“Yes.”

“You left everything I gave you.”

“I left everything you used to make me feel indebted to you.”

His face hardened.

“You’ll regret this.”

I almost smiled.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Adrian. That I’ll regret not leaving sooner.”

I walked past him and entered my building.

This time, he didn’t follow.

But as the elevator doors closed, I saw him standing outside, staring at the entrance.

He looked like a man who had just realized his wife was no longer afraid of him.

And that frightened him more than he wanted to admit.