For a few seconds, I just watched her. I never got tired of memorizing her—every detail of her face, from her rosy cheeks to the soft shape of her small lips.
Clara was perfect.
She was my light, my strength, my absolute reason for everything. The best gift I had ever received. The biggest reason I kept fighting every day.
I leaned over and tucked the blankets around her carefully, then kissed her forehead.
“Good night, Mommy,” she murmured, already half-asleep.
“Good night, my love,” I whispered, smoothing her hair. “Sleep well. Mommy loves you more than anything in this world.”
She smiled—barely—and her breathing soon deepened, steady and calm. She was asleep.
I stayed beside her for a few minutes, listening to that soft sound, feeling it fill me with a happiness and gratitude I couldn’t properly name. Those moments were the most valuable things I owned—small treasures I guarded fiercely in my memory.
Theo lifted his head, watching me with big brown eyes, as if asking whether everything was okay. I reached down and petted him.
“You’re good, buddy. Go back to sleep.”
He exhaled, put his head down, and started snoring softly again.
When I finally stood, I closed the curtains slowly, leaving a thin strip of light so Clara wouldn’t feel insecure if she wokeduring the night. Then I walked to the door in silence, taking one last loving look at her bed before stepping into the hallway.
As I shut the door carefully, a deep sigh escaped me.
Despite the calm of that moment, I couldn’t fully shake the worry that had settled inside me after the conversation in the park.
After the name.
I sank onto the living room couch and let the quiet wrap around me. The only sounds were Clara’s distant breathing and Theo’s soft snores.
And still—no matter how hard I fought it—the name returned, intrusive and insistent.
Ferrara.
Cold crept through me, squeezing my chest until it ached. Knowing that name was suddenly this close—close enough to touch the life I’d built here—made my sense of safety wobble for the first time in years.
And then, inevitably, another name surfaced.
Enrico.
Even after all this time—after everything he’d done—his name still had the power to pull dangerous sensations out of me. Anger. Hurt. Grief.
And something deeper I refused to name, even to myself.
I shut my eyes hard, pressing my palms to my face as I breathed through the emotion threatening to break past the walls I’d built.
I couldn’t allow it.
I couldn’t allow him to have power over me again—not even inside my own memories.
I wasn’t that naive, lovesick girl anymore. That girl had been abandoned, humiliated, erased at an altar. And from her ashes, a different woman had been born—stronger, sharper, determined never to let anyone hurt her like that again.
I opened my eyes, squared my shoulders, and took control.
It didn’t matter who was behind the project.
It didn’t matter that it was the Ferrara name.
