I should go after him, chase him down and beat the smirk off his face.
Hell, I should kill him in broad daylight while I have the chance.
That cockroach is harder to kill than any of us realized, and the longer I let him live, the worse it will be for all of us.
But I don’t move an inch. Because right now, the storm in front of me is the only one that matters.
Stephanie’s still staring at the door, but her hands are shaking now.
When she turns back to me, her eyes are brimming with fury and pain. “Giovanni Chiaroscuro,” she says, voice bitter and sharp. “That’s your full name.”
Hearing her say it wrecks me. “Yes,” I whisper, heart slamming against my ribs. “Steph?—”
“Don’t.” She lifts a hand and slaps mine away when I reach for her again. “Don’t touch me.”
It’s like being punched.
She steps back, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together. “How could you do this to me?”
“Please,” I say, desperate. “Let me explain?—”
“Explain what?” Her voice rises. “That you pretended to be someone else? That you moved in right down the street from me, looked me in the eye every day—hell, you slept in my bed every night—without saying a word?”
I swallow hard, fresh guilt rising up to drown me, and I scratch at the back of my neck.
And in the potent silence, Stephanie seems to read between the lines. “Oh my God. Do you even live near me?” she practically shrieks, fury coloring her cheeks.
Dropping my eyes, I shake my head, and she releases a harsh laugh of disbelief.
“So, you went to the trouble of tracking me down—finally. And then what, you didn’t think I deserved to know who I am? Who you are?” Her voice breaks, tears slipping down her cheeks.“Why now? After all these years? Did you come back because you finally felt guilty for what your father did to me?”
The words hit me like a bullet—what my father did to her.
What my father did to her.
My throat closes.
I can barely get the question out. “Do you… remember now? What happened to you? Did he—” My voice cracks. “Did they touch you? Did they hurt you?”
Her expression shifts, closing off like the shutters of a window snapping shut as her jaw tightens. “Is that all you care about?”
I flinch. “No, I just?—”
“You want to know if someonetouchedme? If they used me? If I’mdamagednow?” Her voice is a whip, each word lashing deeper. “Is that what makes it real to you?”
“No—Stephanie—God, no?—”
“Are you wondering if Jackson was the result of that?” she asks, voice trembling. “Is that why you were so interested in the timing of my pregnancy?”
I freeze.
The accusation slams into me like a freight train.
I think I might be sick.
I’ve thought about it before, but hearing her say it out loud—hearing that maybe, just maybe, the boy I’ve grown to love could’ve been born from that kind of pain—it guts me.
But it’s not what hurts the most.
