Did he wake up and look for me?
Did he know about the baby then—or only later?
How much of my life was shaped by one lie told at the wrong moment?
My heart races like it's trying to outrun the past.
Amauri shifts, pressing closer, his head settling against my ribs. The simple weight of him grounds me. Anchors me back into the present before I float apart. Right. I have responsibilitiesright now.
"Amauri?" I ask quietly. He hesitates. I can feel it in the way his fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He turns to me, his eyes are big, but the question coming out of him is the last I'd expected I'd have to answer now. "Why did Massimo call mehisson, Mummy?"
My heart drops straight through the floor. Not now. Not yet. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, cursing silently. Damn you,Massimo. Throwing words like that into the air and leaving. Of course, this is what Amauri latches onto. Of course,thisis the thread his mind grabs and won't let go. Guilt pricks, sharp and immediate. I owe him the truth. I know that. But not like this. Not when his world is still wobbling on its axis.
I smooth my hand over his hair, buying time. "That's… a big conversation," I say carefully. "One we'll have. I promise. Just not tonight."
He studies my face, serious, too perceptive. "Okay."
Bless him for that. I try to redirect, gently. "Do you want to talk about what happened? About how scary it was?"
He looks at me for a long moment, and in that second, I see it, his face, his expression, the tilt of his mouth when he thinks.
"He looks like me."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Ah, shit.
He takes another bite of his sandwich and chews thoughtfully. Nutella smears a little more across his chin.
"It was scary," he admits. "Dad was really, really scared," he adds, like he's reporting the weather. "I held his hand."
Fuck.
Of course he did.
My little man.
I pull him closer, pressing my lips to the top of his head, breathing him in like oxygen. "You were very brave," I whisper. "I'm so proud of you."
"Is Dad at the hospital?"
I swallow. I have no idea where Carter is, nor do I… care. Not even a little bit. If that makes me a bitch, fine. I can live with that. "Yeah, baby, they're making sure he's okay." I lie.
He shrugs, but he leans into me, accepting the words. Carter went to the hospital quite often; it's nothing new for Amauri and nothing scary. Carter always came back okay.
We sit there like that—him eating, me holding him—while the world outside this suite rearranges itself without my consent. Answers are coming. I can feel it. Storms. Truths that won't stay buried. But for now, my son is safe in my arms. And for now, that is enough. I rock him gently, feeling the steady weight of him against me, the warmth, the proof that he's real and here and mine. His chewing slows. His eyelids droop. He's so small for everything he's already survived.
I press my cheek to his hair and let myself believe—just for this moment—that holding him is enough to keep the world out. I feel something wet between my thighs and know I need to go take a shower. The quick wash-up helped, but it wasn't enough. Unfortunately, for the life of me, I can't summon the will to leave Amauri on the couch. The stickiness between my legs reminds me of another uncomfortable truth, though. I'm not on birth control. I didn't need to be during the last tenyears. Ten years ago, I'd just started taking them when… well, we all know how that ended up. His name is Amauri. Somehow, the thought of another pregnancy doesn't scare me, though. Not even a little bit. Not only because of Massimo, but because I know I'm changing. I'm becoming stronger with every moment. I'm turning into the version of Jenna I was always supposed to be.
But somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the relief, something tightens. Because safety, I'm learning, is never permanent. It's something you borrow. And sooner or later, someone always comes to collect.
The elevator doors slide shut,and the air turns thick. It still smells like her. Like heat and skin and the kind of hunger that doesn't fade just because you step away from it. Fuck. My chest tightens. That shouldn't have happened. Not here. Not now. Not before the ground stopped shifting under my feet.
Yet, nothing has felt that good, thatright, in…Not in years. Not ever.
I brace my hand against the wall, my breath steady but heavy, like I've just surfaced from deep water. My knuckles throb where I shattered the mirror, and blood still dribbles out in places, slick and warm. I take my tie and wrap it around the cut, knotting it hard, willing the pain to anchor me back into control. My jacket is gone. My shirt is ruined. Blood streaks the white silk, and I don't bother fixing it. My shoulder holster is exposed; the gun is visible, unapologetic. Let them see. I don't give a shit.
