“Valentina,” he said carefully, “I understand. But that’s something you need to take up with Enrico. It isn’t my place to decide for him.”
“Of course not.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “That would require genuine concern. And genuine concern doesn’t seem to be a Ferrara specialty.”
His jaw tightened, annoyance—or guilt—flickering briefly.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I truly am. But it’s the only way.”
“No,” I whispered, tears burning again. “It’s the easiest way—for you. Not for me. And not for my daughter.”
André’s gaze went past me, down the hallway, like he half-expected Clara to appear.
She was still asleep.
Thank God.
He was silent for a beat. Then his voice hardened slightly.
“Talk to Enrico,” he said. “I can’t promise he’ll give you what you want—but maybe you can make him see Clara differently now that you’ll be forced to coexist.”
And then he left.
The door shut behind him, and the house felt colder.
I opened the envelope slowly.
Everything was scheduled. Timed. Scripted.
Down to the exact moment we were supposed to look “surprised” when the photographers appeared.
My stomach rolled.
I sank onto the couch, numb.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I picked it up with trembling fingers.
A single message—short, precise, and exactly what I expected.
Enrico:Don’t be late tomorrow. We need to look in love. Don’t ruin this.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Then I set the phone down like it burned.
Because one thing was painfully clear:
This wasn’t peace.
It was a leash.
And Enrico Ferrara had just clipped it around my neck.
TWENTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA MUNIZ
Tomorrow arrived too fast.
