Heat rose in my chest, but I forced control down over it. Eloá was miles away, and still her authority filled the room like she was standing beside my desk.
“This isn’t sentiment,” I said, controlled. “What I’m doing is for my daughter. Clara is my priority now.”
She laughed—dry and bitter, devoid of warmth.
“Don’t be naïve, Enrico. What you call ‘your daughter’s best interest’ is nothing but revenge wearing a prettier name.” Her voice sharpened. “If you want revenge, do it properly and do it fast. Don’t give her time to turn this into a public scandal.”
I closed my eyes, my fist tightening on the desk until it hurt.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said. “I don’t need you telling me how to handle my daughter.”
“Of course you do,” she cut in immediately, her tone dropping into something low and dangerous. “You wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d listened to me in the first place. If you’d followed my advice, that woman would never have had the chance to deceive you.” She didn’t pause. “Do what needs to be done—just do it quickly.”
The call ended abruptly.
I sat there holding the phone, staring into nothing with a mix of anger, frustration, and something deeper I refused to name.
Eloá had always been hard—merciless—but something in her words hit too close.
Not enough to make me back down.
Enough to make me wonder, briefly, how much of this I actually controlled.
I dropped the phone onto the desk and finished the whiskey in a single swallow. The burn in my throat did nothing to erase the bitter taste of that conversation.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
I didn’t need to answer to know who it was.
André.
“I’m assuming you heard all of that,” I muttered without looking up, eyes still fixed on Clara’s photo.
“Hard not to,” André said calmly as he stepped in and took the chair across from me. “Grandma wasn’t exactly trying to be discreet.”
“She never is,” I replied, dry. “And I don’t need another lecture from you tonight.”
André sighed. But I knew he wouldn’t leave without saying what he came to say.
“It’s not a lecture,” he said. “But maybe you should start listening to someone besides our grandmother.” His gaze held mine. “Are you sure taking Clara away from her mother is what’s best for Clara? Or are you giving in to Eloá’s pressure because you feel like you need to prove something?”
I lifted my eyes, letting my stare carry enough weight to shut him up.
“No one manipulates me, André,” I said coldly. “Not even Eloá. Clara is my daughter. Mine.” The words tasted like iron. “I’m not letting Valentina decide how and when I get to be in my child’s life. And I’m certainly not doing this to prove anything.”
My voice sharpened with conviction I could feel in my bones.
“That baby grew up without me—without what I could’ve given her. She’ll never be deprived of anything again. Never.”
André watched me in silence, his calm barely hiding the worry in his eyes.
“The only thing worse than making a mistake,” he said finally, “is doubling down on it out of pride.”
He stood.
“Think about that before it’s too late,” he added, voice quieter. “Look at yourself.” His gaze flicked to the photos, the paperwork, the empty glass. “You’ve been doing this every night for days. Sitting here. Staring at her pictures. Obsessing over a lawsuit that—at best—is ugly.”
He paused at the door.
