"You said you wanted a son," I throw into his face, frustration spilling over after another weekend of excuses. "That's why you agreed to marry me."
He doesn't even look up from his phone. "For image, yes," he replies coolly. "That doesn't mean I have to tolerate the bastard."
The word hits like a slap.
"He's a child," I snap. "Your child."
"He's not mine," Carter states flatly. "And don't confuse obligation with affection."
I stand there, hands shaking, realizing with brutal clarity that this is the line. That if he ever crosses it—if he ever aims that coldness directly at Amauri—I will leave. Consequences be damned. Reputation. Politics. Money.
None of it will matter.
I blink myself back into the present. Esther is kneeling now, eye-level with Amauri, asking him about his favorite games. He answers cautiously at first, then with growing animation. I watch him, how he leans in, how his shoulders slowly relax.
It makes me think of Massimo. Of the way he scooped Amauri up without hesitation. Of the way he swore, with his whole being, that no one would ever hurt him again. My eyes burn. I'm starting to understand something I never let myself see before: I'm not the only one to just survive my marriage. Amauri did too. And now—finally—he doesn't have to anymore.
Esther straightens and looks at me gently. "Would there be somewhere private I could talk with Amauri?" When I instinctively tense, she adds, "You're welcome to stay if you'd like. But it's often easier if I speak with him alone first. Just for a little while."
I glance at Amauri. He's listening, serious, taking this in the way he always does when adults talk around him instead of to him.
"That okay, baby?" I ask.
He nods after a second. "Can I bring Hammie?"
Esther smiles. "Of course you can."
That settles it. I watch them head toward the guest bedroom, Esther unhurried, Amauri clutching the hamster carrier like it's armor. The door closes softly behind them. I tell myself I trust Massimo. I wouldn't have let this happen otherwise. He wouldn't send just anyone. Still, the habit of vigilance is hard to shake. I grab my phone and type inEsther Bonnet, therapist. The results come back almost immediately. Highly recommended. Trauma-informed. Decorated. Discreet. Trusted with children in high-risk situations. Article after article. Parent testimonials. Professional accolades. Nothing even remotely questionable. Easing the tightness of my chest.
The door opens behind me.
Massimo.
He steps inside, taking in the room in one sweep, eyes sharp, posture loose but ready. He spots me immediately.
"She's with him," I say before he can ask. "Esther."
He nods once. "Good."
I don't say anything else. I just walk up to him and kiss him. Not careful. Not hesitant. "Thank you."
He stills for half a second, then his hand comes up to my jaw, grounding, familiar.
"For thinking of him," I murmur against his mouth. "For not forgetting."
"I never will," simple words, but I don't think he knows how much they mean to me.
I believe him. Somewhere down the hall, my son is talking to someone who knows how to listen.
"I'll have to leave for a few hours," Massimo fills me in, adjusting his cuff as if it's nothing more than a scheduling detail. "Around one-thirty. Business."
My chest tightens instinctively, but he's already shaking his head. "I'll be back in time for dinner. I promise."
I nod, trusting that promise more than I ever thought I would.
"In the meantime," he continues, "I've arranged for a decorator to stop by. I want you to change the penthouse however you like. Make it yours." His gaze softens just a fraction. "Amauri can pick any of the guest bedrooms for himself."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "Massimo…" I start.
