I lowered my head, let out a long breath, and did what my daughter demanded.
I left the room.
I sat in the plastic chair outside the door, back against the wall, hands empty, heart breaking in slow motion.
I would stay there.
I would make sure they had anything they needed—at least for now.
And when Clara was discharged, I would do the rest.
I would erase every trace of my existence from their lives. I would clean up the sadness I’d spread the moment I reappeared. I would give them the chance to be happy again—even if it condemned me to a miserable existence for the rest of my days.
I deserved it.
THIRTY-NINE
VALENTINA FERRARA
The hospital room was silent, soaked in that antiseptic smell—cold and impersonal—that always made my skin crawl.
Sitting in the uncomfortable chair beside the bed, I kept my eyes fixed on Clara’s pale, delicate face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept under the medication.
Every second since we arrived felt painfully slow.
My emotions were raw, stretched thin, exhausted and frayed by the whirlwind that had shattered our lives in such a short time.
My heart tightened every time my mind returned to the night before—to the helpless terror I felt when her fever rose too fast, too high. To the way my hands shook as I drove to the hospital with Clara’s small body burning beside me, my fingers wrapped around her hot little hand, whispering promises I barely believed:
You’re okay. Mommy’s here. You’re okay.
But all of it—the fever, the panic, the hospital—was only the cruel consequence of something bigger.
Something I couldn’t push out of my mind no matter how hard I tried.
Enrico knew the truth.
He knew I had never betrayed him.
And still, he planned to keep it from me—to leave me trapped inside that agony, inside that lie that had devoured my life for years.
It was devastating to realize that for so long, I’d secretly wished for this. Wished that one day he would discover the truth and finally see that he’d been wrong about me. I imagined how it would feel—justice, relief, vindication.
But now that it was real, I felt nothing like relief.
Only pain.
Only rage.
He had destroyed my life. Stripped away my happiness. Stolen every dream I’d ever had.
And even after discovering the extent of his mistake, he still had the audacity to hide it—protecting his pride instead of easing the suffering he had caused.
I looked at Clara again, her innocent face soft in sleep, and tears burned behind my eyes. She didn’t deserve any of this. She didn’t deserve to pay for the lies and the war that had poisoned everything between me and her father.
My mind snapped back to the moment André entered the room hours earlier, expression weary and hesitant, telling me he’d finally reached Enrico and that he was coming to the hospital.
My body tensed instantly.
