The Don and Eight Men Paid for Me in a Three-Year Scam

Every dollar my boyfriend spends on me can be divided by nine. I have always been good with numbers, so after three years with Adrian Moretti, I know it is not a coincidence. Even the condoms cost exactly twenty-seven dollars. I ask him about it once. He only laughs. “I’m broke. Of course I have to watch every dollar.” I believe him. Adrian has always said his family is complicated and that he wants nothing to do with them. He lives simply, never talks about money, and lets me think we are building our future from nothing together. Everything changes when a woman approaches me. She looks me over and smiles. “Claire Bennett. The genius on a scholarship.” I frown. She tilts her head. “You’re so good with numbers. You never wondered why it’s always nine?” She takes me across the street from the apartment Adrian and I share and unlocks the door to another unit. The moment I step inside, I stop breathing. One entire wall is covered with photos of me. Me leaving for work. Me coming home. Me carrying groceries. Me sitting alone by my window. Under the photos are notes. What time I wake up. How much I spend each month. When Adrian and I fight. Even the nights he stays over. My stomach turns. A laptop sits open on the desk. A group chat is still running. THE SCHOLARSHIP GIRL BET. The newest messages are coming in fast. [Are we getting a show tonight?] [Don’t let her close the curtains.] My fingers go cold. For three years, whenever I try to pull the curtains shut, Adrian stops me. He always says the apartment across the street is empty. Standing here now, I can see straight into my bedroom. Even the wrinkles in my sheets are visible. I force myself to look back at the chat. The first messages are dated three years ago. [Moretti, you lost. Go ask out the broke scholarship girl.] Adrian replies with one word. [Fine.] Another message follows. [We’ll split the cost. Let’s see how long the genius takes to figure it out.] There are expense notes under it. [Condoms: $27. Three bucks each.] [Birthday necklace: $270. Thirty each.] I stare at the screen until the words blur. The woman beside me lifts her left hand. A diamond ring catches the light. “One more thing.” I look at her. She smiles. “I’m Vanessa Romano Moretti.” My chest tightens. “Adrian’s wife.” For a second, I hear nothing. Then she adds, almost casually, “We’ve been married for two years.” Two years. Adrian and I have been together for three. I look at the wall again. Three years of my life. Three years of breakfasts, medicine, birthday gifts, whispered promises, and nights I thought belonged to us. To them, I am just a game whose cost they have been splitting nine ways. I take photos of everything, save the chat records, and forward copies to my attorney. I send Adrian one message. [Game over.] I block him and book the first flight to San Francisco. If nine people enjoyed splitting the cost of my life, they can split the consequences too.

By the time I check my bag, there are forty minutes left before boarding. An unknown number calls. I answer. Adrian’s voice comes through immediately. “Why did you block me?” “Your wife showed me the apartment across from mine.” Silence. Only for a few seconds. Then his voice is calm again. “I left that group a long time ago. The others kept it going without me. I’ll deal with them.” I almost laugh. “And your wife?” Another pause. “Our marriage is between two families. I can’t just end it.” “So you married her and kept dating me.” “Vanessa wanted the Moretti name. You wanted me. I’ve been with you for three years. You both got what you wanted.” I grip my phone tighter. “Should I thank you?” “Claire, when did I ever neglect you? Breakfast. Medicine. Birthday gifts. Whatever you needed, I made sure you had it.” “Did your friends order my breakfast too?” He goes quiet for a moment. “Sometimes, when I was busy. It still got delivered. What difference does that make?” For three years, every breakfast avoided peanuts and anything too cold for my stomach. I thought Adrian remembered my allergy and my stomach problems. Now I know anyone in that group could have read the notes and placed the order. His care was a checklist. Nothing more. Adrian exhales. “Go to San Francisco if you need space. But tomorrow’s deal still goes through.” I go still. “What deal?” “Your research partnership with Moretti Biotech. Sign the licensing agreement as planned. Don’t throw away your career because you’re angry with me.” My hand tightens around the phone. “Moretti Biotech is yours?” “It belongs to my family.” The last piece falls into place. The Moretti Foundation has supported my education and research for six years. I have spent years talking about how badly I want to work with Moretti Biotech. Every time, Adrian would smile and say, “Once you get in, you can support me for a change.” He let me believe he was broke. He let me dream about getting into a company his family owned. “Were you ever going to tell me?” “After you signed.” I hang up. A message arrives from one of his friends. [Adrian isn’t divorcing Vanessa. You’ve had him for three years. Be grateful.] I delete it and open the group-chat files I saved. There is a nine-second video from seven days ago. That was the day my project passed its final review. Adrian promised he would come home and celebrate with me. In the video, he is in the surveillance apartment. Vanessa is underneath him on the bed. Their clothes are scattered across the floor. The curtains are open. Across the street, visible through the window, I am sitting alone in my apartment, lighting a candle on a small cake. The group chat runs beside the video. [Our genius is still waiting for Moretti.] Vanessa replies. [It’s our anniversary. He should be with his wife.] Someone tags Adrian. [You really not going over there?] His answer appears below. [Let her wait.] My vision blurs for a second. That night, he was not too busy. He had simply chosen who deserved his time and who could keep waiting. The boarding announcement sounds. Two messages from the same unknown number appear on my screen. [Take a few days. Come back when you calm down.] A second message follows. [Vanessa is my wife. If you see her again, don’t make things difficult for her.] I stare at the words before canceling tomorrow’s signing with Moretti Biotech. I transfer back every dollar of the educational and research grants I received from the Moretti Foundation. Memo: [Grant repayment.] With that done, I turn off my phone and walk toward the gate. For three years, Adrian Moretti kept telling me to wait. This time, I don’t.

I have barely checked into my hotel in San Francisco when my mentor sends me a livestream from the Moretti Foundation. The first image on the giant screen is my apartment. My apartment. The one I lived in for three years. My daily routine, the route I take to work, and even my monthly spending have all been edited into an inspirational video. A warm voice narrates over the footage. “Three years ago, nine young donors began a private support initiative for a promising scholarship student.” Numbers appear across the screen. [Birthday Support: $270] [Medical Support: $63] [Daily Meals: $27] Nine donor names follow every expense. Adrian Moretti is first. Vanessa Romano Moretti is second. The same numbers were game expenses in the surveillance apartment. Now, on a public stage, they are charity records. The host smiles at Vanessa. “Mrs. Moretti, were you the one coordinating all this support?” Before she can answer, Adrian takes the microphone. “Vanessa put a lot of work into it. Without her, the program wouldn’t have lasted this long.” I stare at the screen. He told me Vanessa only wanted the Moretti name. But the three years they spent watching me, laughing at me, and splitting the cost of my life have now become proof of her “charity work.” The moment Adrian steps offstage, I call him. “Why are you using footage from the surveillance apartment in a foundation campaign?” “Vanessa only used ordinary daily-life material. Nothing private.” “That material was recorded without my permission.” His voice stays calm. “It already exists, Claire. Deleting it now would be pointless. Vanessa needs a real accomplishment she can point to.” For a second, I say nothing. Then he adds, “She’s presenting your project too.” My grip tightens around the phone. “That is my project.” His patience finally slips. “Can you be reasonable for once?” I almost laugh. He continues, “Vanessa has never had an easy position in the Moretti family. She needs one real accomplishment people can respect.” “So you decided to give her mine.” “You’ll have more opportunities. She won’t.” A message arrives while he is still talking. It is a rendering of a private lab. “Moretti Biotech kept the lab plan we discussed,” Adrian says. “You’ll have your own floor, your own team, and the equipment you asked for. Let Vanessa have this presentation. I’ll give you something better.” I look at the rendering. The layout is almost identical to the sketch I made two years ago. He remembers exactly what I wanted. He simply thinks remembering gives him the right to take something else away. I end the call. When I return to the livestream, the project presentation has already started. Vanessa stands onstage with my slides behind her and my talking points in her hand. In the lower corner of the screen is one line. [Presented by Vanessa Moretti] The camera cuts to the front row. Adrian is applauding. Months ago, Adrian promised he would sit in the front row the day I finally presented the project. He kept that promise. He is just clapping for his wife instead. A reporter hands him a microphone. “Ms. Bennett isn’t here today. Can the partnership still move forward?” “She’s under the weather,” Adrian says. “The agreement will be signed as planned.” “And if she doesn’t agree?” He does not hesitate. “She will.” The reporter smiles. “You sound very sure.” Adrian leans back in his chair. “Claire received support from the Moretti Foundation for years. She understands what loyalty means.” Applause fills the room. I open the project group chat. My last message is still there from last night. [I am withdrawing from the Moretti Biotech deal. I will not sign the licensing agreement.] Adrian’s reply sits underneath it. [Stop being dramatic.] Even now, he thinks I am coming back. I save the livestream, send a copy to my attorney, and leave the Moretti Biotech project group. A few minutes later, my mentor forwards me another message. [Nexora Labs invites Claire Bennett to attend the San Francisco Tech Summit as a featured research guest.] I read it once. Then I type my answer. [Yes. I’ll be there.]