I didn't move.
She hesitated, then smiled, weak but genuine. "Are you exhausted? Did the nurse take her to rest? That's okay, I can wait a bit, I just want to look—"
"Olivia."
My voice came out dry. She caught it. The smile froze on her face.
"Where's the baby?"
"She's fine," was all I could say. "She's healthy. Beautiful. Blonde hair like you."
"Where is she?"
I didn't answer.
Her eyes went red. Not the slow build of tears—sudden, violent, like something detonating behind her eyes.
"Ezio," her voice started shaking. "Where is my child?"
"She was... taken by family," I forced out, throat constricted. "Tradition says the heir needs a specialized team for care."
She went still.
The silence that followed was worse than every scream from the delivery room.
Then she moved.
She pushed herself up from the bed, the IV line yanked, the needle skewed, blood seeping from the back of her hand. She didn't care. Just stared at me, hard. "What did you say?"
"Calm down."
"What did you fucking say?!" Her voice cracked sharp, weak but each word a spike in my ear. "My baby was taken? You let them take my baby?!"
"It's family tradition."
"Fuck your tradition!" Her face was breaking apart. "That's my child! Nine months I carried her! What right do you have to take her from me?!"
She got out of bed, legs buckling, gripping the mattress edge tostay upright. The IV tore free completely, blood running down her hand, dripping onto the floor.
"Where is she? I want to see her!"
"Olivia!"
"I want my daughter!" She lunged forward, grabbing my shirt, those green eyes drowning but not a single tear falling yet. "Ezio, please, let me see her. Just once. I won't hold her—I'll just look, okay? I'm begging you—"
Her voice shattered like dropped glass.
I looked down at her hands. So thin. So pale. The needle still crooked in the back of her hand, blood mixing with saline, dripping onto my cuff.
I had no words.
I couldn't say yes. I knew I couldn't. The family wouldn't allow it. The elders wouldn't. Those "professional caregiving teams" already waiting at the manor wouldn't. If I said yes and brought her, they'd block her from the door in ways far crueler.
All I could say was: "The child will be safe and healthy. You have visitation rights."
She went rigid.
That light in her eyes—it died. Slowly. One flicker at a time.
