Memorized her expressions, her little movements, the way she pushed fruit around her plate.
When it was time to leave, I felt a strange reluctance to walk out.
Valentina walked me to the door. Clara stood just behind her, watching.
“Thanks,” I said, curtly. “For helping smooth over the conversation. I didn’t think she’d remember—or that it would affect her.”
Valentina nodded slowly, exhaling.
“I’m not doing this for you, Enrico,” she said evenly. “I’m doing it for her. Only her.”
I held her gaze for a second, then nodded.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said.
“I know,” she replied calmly. “Clara will be waiting for you.”
I walked to the car with fast, controlled steps, heart beating too hard in my chest.
Because even though what Valentina said was true—that all of this was happening because of Clara—I also knew something I was willing to deny until the end:
For a brief moment, in that small kitchen, with my daughter beside me and Valentina close—too close, too vulnerable—
I had felt something I wasn’t allowed to feel.
A disturbing, sharp longing for everything I’d lost.
For everything Valentina had destroyed with her selfish plans five years ago.
And that sensation was—by far—the most dangerous thing I had ever faced.
EIGHTEEN
VALENTINA MUNIZ
It was astonishing how life could keep moving normally on the surface while a real earthquake happened quietly inside me.
The last few days had been strangely calm—almost as if the storms of the past weeks had been distant nightmares.
The bank’s demands still haunted me, but after placing everything in my attorney’s hands, I could breathe a little easier. It was serious, but it was being handled.
Enrico, on the other hand, seemed to have retreated—at least publicly. Since the DNA results, he’d been coming to see Clara every day. He stayed two or three hours with her, then left.
He barely spoke to me, limiting himself to short, cold exchanges when necessary.
And for the most part, I preferred it that way.
I still didn’t know what to expect from him, but the truth was—he was being kind to our daughter.
It was almost unbearable to admit, even to myself, but the way he was with Clara was exactly how I had always imagined it would be.
Patient. Gentle. Sweet.
None of that calculated arrogance he reserved exclusively for me.
In a twisted way, it was comforting.
I could withstand his contempt as long as he never hurt Clara.
