“I left.”
Her expression shifts. “Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Are men bleeding somewhere?”
“Not because of that.”
She looks at me for another second. Then returns to Lucia. “Progress.”
“Yes.”
I enter the nursery. The room wasn’t designed by me. That was deliberate. I gave Evie final authority over it. She didn’t decorate so much as establish terms. The cradles are positionedaway from the window’s glare and outside the direct line from the door. A chair sits near the corner within sight of every entrance. The changing table is angled so no one using it has their back fully turned.
Teresa approved. That shouldn’t have mattered. It did, to Evie and me.
The walls are not pink. Evie refused that before anyone suggested it. They’re soft green. Cream. Dark wood. One small framed print from Dublin. One from Florence. No family portraits. Not yet.
Her decision. The correct one. The room belongs to Lucia and Sofia before it belongs to legacy.
That’s new for this house.
I approach the cradle. Lucia’s small hand moves, fingers opening and closing without purpose. I look at it for too long.
Evie notices. “She isn’t a contract.”
“No.”
“You stare like you’re waiting for clauses.”
“I’m learning the terms.”
Her mouth almost moves. “Pick her up, then.”
I look at her.
“She’s awake,” Evie says. “You’re here. Do something useful.”
Useful.That word remains safer between us than tender ones.
I reach down carefully and lift Lucia. Her head fits against my palm. Her body folds into the crook of my arm with total, unreasonable trust. She cannot know who holds her. Cannot know what I have done. Cannot know what was broken before she existed.
Still, she settles.
My chest tightens. I don’t adjust my expression.
Evie watches. “You’re allowed to react.”
“I am reacting.”
“Internally?”
“Yes.”
“Very dramatic.”
Lucia makes a sound of complaint. I shift her slightly. She quiets.
