“Are you going to have dinner with us, Uncle Enrico?” she asked, like it was the simplest question in the world.
My heart slammed.
In the month since Clara and I had moved into this mansion, the three of us had never eaten a meal together. Clara had never asked.
Enrico looked just as startled. His eyes flicked to me, then back to Clara, choosing his words carefully.
“I—yes,” he started, then corrected himself. He looked at me again. “If it’s okay with your mom,” he added gently.
Before I could answer, Clara smiled and tugged my hand.
“It’s fine, right, Mommy?” she asked brightly. “There’s enough food for everyone, right?”
I inhaled slowly, trying to steady myself.
The hope on my daughter’s face was too innocent for me to crush.
And somewhere under my fear, something warm and unexpected was spreading.
“Of course,” I said, voice controlled. “It’s not a problem.”
Clara squealed and hugged my waist, then ran toward her room.
Enrico stayed where he was, relief written all over him, still careful.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on mine with a depth I wasn’t ready for.
I nodded quickly, suddenly feeling exposed.
Because a month ago, this man had forced me into a marriage I didn’t want.
And now our daughter had invited him into something as ordinary as dinner.
As I led Clara toward the bath, the comfort I’d felt lodged under my ribs like a dangerous thing—sweet and bitter at the same time.
I had to fight it.
I couldn’t let a small moment of normalcy make me happy.
Not with Enrico.
I could hope for my daughter.
But I couldn’t forget.
And yet, listening to Clara hum softly to herself, I felt something I didn’t want to feel:
A small crack forming in the armor I’d built to survive him.
I needed to stay strong.
Because that unexpected comfort?
It was a risk I couldn’t afford to take again.
FORTY-FOUR
ENRICO FERRARA
