I sat on the edge of the bed and dropped my head into my hands, fighting the wave of anguish threatening to suffocate me. I needed to find the strength to carry out that impossible decision. I needed to face Valentina and tell her that I was finally going to free them from me.
I stood with effort, feeling the weight in my bones and in my soul, and searched for my phone.
It was still dead on the nightstand.
I inhaled and plugged it in, committing—finally—to the conversation I had to have.
But the second the screen lit up, it flickered wildly with notifications.
Dozens.
Missed calls. Messages. André’s name filling the screen with escalating urgency.
A cold, dark premonition hit me as I opened them.
André:Enrico, pick up. It’s Clara. She was admitted overnight. We need you here NOW.
The floor seemed to collapse under my feet.
My breath failed.
Reality hit like a blunt strike to the ribs.
I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I grabbed the clothes I’d worn the night before, threw them on, and ran out the door—heart consumed by fear and a desperate, choking certainty that now, more than ever, I was going to be forced to face the consequences of every mistake I’d made.
The trip to Tiradentes had never felt so unbearably long.
Every second stretched into eternity. My heart pounded violently against my chest, and desperation tightened around my throat while guilt ate me alive from the inside.
When I finally reached the hospital, I moved through the corridors with reckless speed, searching for Valentina—or André—any sign of them.
I found my brother at the entrance to the pediatric wing, his face pale, eyes hollow with exhaustion and worry. The moment he saw me, relief crossed his features—mixed with dread.
“Enrico. Finally.” His voice was low but urgent. He stepped toward me.
“How are they?” I asked immediately, my voice thick with panic. “Any change since we spoke?”
I had called André as soon as my phone had held enough charge—while I was already on the move. In that brief, brutal conversation, he told me Clara had suffered a severe anxiety episode during the night, likely triggered by the argument she’d witnessed between me and Valentina. Her fever had spiked dangerously, and Valentina had rushed her to the hospital.
Clara had been medicated and stabilized—but she was still fragile.
And Valentina hadn’t left her side for even a second.
André shook his head, grief sitting heavy in his eyes.
“Same condition,” he said. “And Valentina hasn’t moved from her bedside once. She’s wrecked.” He swallowed. “Brace yourself, Enrico. This won’t be easy for anyone.”
I nodded, throat tight, painfully aware there was no way to prepare for what waited behind that door.
When I stepped into the room, whatever was left of my heart shattered completely.
Valentina sat beside the bed, holding Clara’s small hand between both of hers as if she could anchor our daughter to life through sheer will.
Clara’s eyes were closed. Her face was too pale, too small, too fragile.
The sight ripped the last piece of courage out of me and left me exposed—raw.
“Valentina…” I managed, barely audible, taking an uncertain step toward them.
