Valentina nodded immediately, resolute—still avoiding my eyes.
At that moment, I forced myself to focus completely on the conversation. I could no longer allow my thoughts to orbit endlessly around the woman beside me.
As much as my heart insisted on returning to Valentina, I had to stay anchored in reality—in what we were building for Clara.
“We’ll continue doing whatever is necessary for Clara,” I said finally, my voice steady, deliberate.
The psychologist seemed satisfied.
After a few final guidelines, the session ended.
As we walked toward the adjoining room to get Clara, I wished my heart were as capable as my mind of focusing on practical matters.
But every step taken beside Valentina was a reminder of how deeply I still longed for something I might never have again.
And above all, I reminded myself of the one truth that mattered now:
This was no longer about me—or my emotions.
It was about Clara.
And her future.
Even if that meant living every day with the pain of loving someone whose forgiveness I would never deserve.
FORTY-NINE
VALENTINA FERRARA
The quiet of the night was anything but comforting.
Whatever sense of safety I had slowly learned to feel inside that house had evaporated after my last late-night encounter with Enrico. Now, with every step I took through the dark corridors, fear pulsed through me—mixed with a treacherous desire and a completely irrational expectation that we might cross paths again.
All I needed was a glass of water.
I would go to the kitchen, get it, and return safely to my room.
I had started keeping bottled water on my nightstand, but I had finished the last one the night before. And I had completely forgotten to restock during what I had mentally labeledsafe interaction hours—the time of day when other people were around and darkness and memories weren’t our only companions, practically fueling the possibility of doing something stupid.
A faint light spilled from the half-open door of Enrico’s office, and I stopped walking.
I knew I shouldn’t.
My objective was simple: kitchen, water, bedroom.
Not even a zombie apocalypse should have been enough to distract me from that plan—and yet there I was, standing in front of a door I had no business approaching, simply because a light was on.
Enrico didn’t usually stay up that late in his office. Not since our marriage, at least.
Had something happened?
I hesitated. But something stronger than my usual caution pulled me forward, and I quietly stepped closer, peering through the narrow crack in the door.
My husband was sitting on the floor, surrounded by open boxes and scattered papers. His back rested against the wall, his posture curved inward—tired, heavy, almost defeated.
A desk lamp cast a soft glow over his face, revealing an expression I had never seen before.
Vulnerable.
