But something else did too—something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years.
A hope that terrified me.
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” I said. “For you and for Clara.”
“For me, no,” Valentina corrected immediately, voice hard. “Don’t confuse yourself.” Pain flickered behind her eyes. “I’m not asking for anything for me. You owe me nothing except the peace you never gave me.” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you. I don’t know if I even want to.” Her voice steadied. “But for Clara, I’ll try. For my daughter, I’ll try to coexist with you because she deserves that.” She held my gaze. “That’s the only promise I can give you right now.”
I nodded, accepting the boundary.
“I understand,” I said quietly. “For Clara, then.”
Valentina studied me for a long beat, then nodded once—barely.
“It’s good you’re willing,” she said. “Because this is probably the only chance you’re going to get.” Her voice sharpened. “And if we’re doing this, we’re going to need rules.”
FORTY-THREE
VALENTINA FERRARA
I sat on the sofa with the remote clenched in my hand, watching the TV like it could either save me or finish me.
Enrico was live.
A press conference—carefully staged, cameras stacked like weapons, journalists packed in tight. He stood at the podium with the posture of a man who had never lost control of a room in his life.
And yet… something was different.
He was still Enrico Ferrara—sharp suit, precise jaw, that practiced stillness that made people listen—but there was a restraint to him I didn’t recognize. A severity. A kind of vulnerability I had never seen him allow.
“Dreamland is officially terminated,” his voice carried cleanly, amplified through microphones as flashes lit his face in hard white bursts. “While I continue to believe in the economic benefits it could have brought, I’ve come to understand that no amount of financial gain is worth sacrificing more important values—community, history, and above all, the well-being and happiness of the people who live in Tiradentes.”
My pulse jumped.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I knew how rarely Enrico admitted anything publicly that could be read as weakness.
He kept speaking, calm under pressure, answering questions with the same control he’d always brought to boardrooms.
Then he did the one thing that made my stomach tighten into a knot.
“I want to be clear,” he said, steady. “I did not reach this decision alone. My wife, Valentina, was instrumental in helping me understand the mistake I was making by pushing this project forward. She forced me to look beyond numbers and projections and see the real human consequences of my decisions.”
My name—myname—spoken into microphones, broadcast into every living room that had ever whispered my story.
My throat tightened.
And my phone vibrated instantly on the cushion beside me.
Júlia.
I answered on the second ring.
“Are you watching?” she demanded, skipping hello entirely.
“I am,” I whispered. My voice sounded too thin, too fragile.
“Valentina… people are finally going to understand. He admitted he was wrong.” Júlia’s words came fast, breathless. “They’re going to realize you weren’t who they turned you into.”
