Ninety-Nine Messages, One Goodbye

Adrian came home while I was sitting on the living room rug, folding a pale yellow onesie.

He handed his overcoat to a guard and came over to me. When I reached for the next piece of clothing, he crouched behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“Still angry about the checkup?”

Three days earlier, he had left halfway through the appointment because Bianca thought someone was watching her estate.

“The guards found nothing,” he said. “But she was frightened. I couldn't leave her alone.”

He took a small beaded charm from his pocket. Red and gold beads surrounded a saint's medal engraved with the letter A.

Angel was the name he had chosen for our baby.

“For the nursery. I made it yesterday. Bianca spent three hours teaching me.”

I looked at the charm in his palm. While I had been in the hospital losing our child, he had been sitting beside her, making a gift for the nursery.

“Her father took a bullet for my family, Elena. You know why I have to look after her.”

I nodded and placed the charm beside the onesie.

He turned me slightly so he could see my face.

“That's all?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

His shoulders relaxed. He kissed my temple and settled beside me.

“I'm glad we're not arguing about this again.”

“Did you read the messages I sent yesterday?”

“Of course.” He brushed my hair back. “You said the checkup went well. The baby's healthy.”

My next appointment was scheduled for tomorrow.

The last warmth inside my chest slowly faded.

After our previous argument about Bianca, Adrian had set my account to send automatic replies. He said the Moretti family was facing a dangerous period and he had no time to deal with my endless suspicions.

Since then, he had never truly opened our conversation.

When my fever reached one hundred and three, I asked him to bring medicine home. His phone replied, “Got it,” with the same cartoon cat waving beneath the words.

He came back empty-handed, carrying the sweet perfume Bianca always wore.

Before my amniocentesis, I asked him to spare one hour and come to the hospital to sign the consent form.

He promised he would be there.

Shortly before the procedure, Bianca claimed someone was watching the Bellini estate. Adrian took a security team to her house and left me to sign the papers alone.

I had cried and asked why I was always the person he abandoned.

“Her father took a bullet for the Moretti family,” he said. “Before he died, he placed Bianca in my care. She is ill, Elena. She has no one else.”

Then his voice hardened.

“You are my wife. You have my name, my ring, and the respect of the entire Moretti family. Why do you insist on competing with her?”

I believed that once Bianca became stable, Adrian would give more of his time to me and our child.

Even when the hospital staff wheeled me toward the operating room, I refused to release my phone.

The cold equipment pressed against my skin. The doctor repeatedly warned me that the placental abruption was severe and that they had to operate immediately.

I kept staring at the screen.

I waited for Adrian to notice the messages.

I waited for him to say, “I’m coming.”

I waited for him to reach the hospital in time to see our child once.

Instead, I received ninety-nine identical replies. Each one said, “Got it,” with the same cartoon cat waving beneath the words.

When the surgery ended, I sent one final message.

“The baby is gone.”

The automatic reply arrived on time.

“Got it.”

The cartoon cat continued waving beneath the words.

I reached beneath the coffee table and took out a leather folder. Inside was the divorce agreement my attorney had prepared, with tabs beside every place Adrian needed to sign.

I put it on the table and handed him a pen.

“I need your signature.”

He glanced at the folder.

“Something from the jeweler?”

He often approved jewelry purchases this way. After our arguments, another box would arrive, and he would fasten a bracelet around my wrist before asking whether we were finished being angry.

“The marked pages,” I said.

His private phone rang before he looked inside.

Only Bianca's number could override every silent setting on that device.

He answered, and her tearful voice filled the room.

“Adrian, the backup power failed. It's dark, and I heard something outside. I'm scared.”

He stood and reached for his coat.

“Lock your bedroom door. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

I held out the folder before he could leave.

“Sign it first.”

“Elena, I have to go.”

“It will only take a moment.”

Bianca called his name through the phone. He tucked it against his shoulder, took the pen, and signed beside each tab without reading a line.

“Order whatever you like,” he said, setting the pen down. “I'll bring you a chestnut cake from Rossi's when I come back.”

He brushed his fingertips across my cheek, then left with his guards.

The black sedan disappeared beyond the estate gates, which slowly closed behind it.

I lowered myself onto the rug, one hand braced against the wall.

Pain from the surgery spread through my abdomen and lower back. Cold sweat dampened my clothes.

My phone lit up.

“Mrs. Moretti, your request to transfer to the Boston office has been approved. Please confirm whether you accept the appointment.”

I looked at the divorce agreement on the table.

Adrian’s signature stood clearly on the final page.

I pressed Confirm.

Then I booked a flight out of New York for the following week.

Adrian believed a chestnut cake and a careless apology would calm me by the time he returned.

This time, I would not be waiting for him.