Chapter 35 CHAPTER 35

Chapter 35 CHAPTER 35
EMILIA

"Mommy! Mommy, I missed you so much!"

The child’s voice was a jagged blade that sliced right through the suffocating tension Andrea and I had built just seconds ago. I stood frozen, my wrists still tingling from where Andrea had pinned them, while a pair of small, frantic arms squeezed my thighs.

Andrea’s feral expression didn't vanish; it simply morphed into a mask of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He looked at the girl, then at me, then back at the girl, as if she were a ghost that had just materialized through the mahogany doors.

"Sweetie," I stuttered, my hands hovering awkwardly over her messy curls. I tried to peel her back gently, but she only buried her face deeper into the emerald silk of my dress. "Listen to me, I’m not... I’m not your mommy. You must have the wrong room."

"No!" the girl wailed, her voice rising into a heartbroken sob. "You're Mommy! You came back!"

"Emilia, who is this?" Andrea’s voice was low, clinical again, but I could hear the sharp edge of suspicion.

"How should I know? I've been in this house with you!" I snapped, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking my shock. I looked down at the child. "Please, honey, you’re making a mistake. I’m Emilia. I’m not…"

The girl didn't listen. She clung to me like a life raft in a storm, her tears soaking into the expensive fabric.

Andrea sighed, a heavy, irritated sound. He stepped forward and squatted, bringing himself down to the child's level.

He didn't look like a comforting father figure; he looked like a businessman trying to negotiate a hostile takeover.

"Listen, kid," Andrea said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I’ll make you a deal. If you let go of her and stop calling her that, I’ll buy you whatever you want. Dolls? A playhouse? A car? Just name it and go back to whoever you belong to."

The girl looked at him with wide, tear-rimmed eyes for a second, then let out a fresh howl of misery, clutching me tighter.

I couldn't help it. A sharp, jagged laugh escaped my throat. "Are you serious, Andrea? You think you can just close a deal with a five-year-old? 'Here’s a Barbie, now sign this NDA and vacate the premises'?"

Andrea shot me a look that could have curdled milk. He stood up, smoothing his tuxedo jacket. "Children are just smaller, more irrational humans. They want things. I offered things."

"They're children, you idiot, not mercenaries," I sarcastically muttered back.

"This," Andrea gestured vaguely at the sobbing child, "is exactly why I never want kids. They’re loud, they’re damp, and they’re unpredictable."

"The feeling is definitely not mutual," I whispered, though I finally managed to tuck a stray curl behind the girl’s ear.

We started moving toward the door, the girl still attached to my leg like a barnacle. Just as we reached the threshold, the shadow of a man fell across the carpet.

Don Vindiego stepped into the frame, his face pale. The moment he saw the girl, his eyes widened. He rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own polished shoes.

"Sofia!" he hissed, his voice a mix of fury and relief. "What are you doing? I told you to stay with the nanny! You can't just wander around a house like this!"

"I found Mommy, Daddy!" Sofia cried, pointing a trembling finger up at me. "See? I found her!"

Andrea opened his mouth, likely to launch into a rant about security or the sheer inconvenience of being mistaken for a parent, but Vindiego completely ignored him. He dropped to his knees in front of Sofia, his hands gripping her shoulders.

"Sofia, look at me," Vindiego said, his voice dropping to a stern, frighteningly quiet register. "This woman is not your mother. Your mother is gone. Do you understand?"

"No! It's her!" Sofia insisted, her face turning purple with the effort of her screams.

Vindiego’s expression hardened into something cold and jagged. He leaned in closer, his voice a low threat. "If you do not stop this right now and come with me, I will give away that bear. I will give it to the dogs. Do you want that?"

The girl’s sob caught in her throat. She looked at the tattered bear, then at me, then at her father’s icy eyes. Slowly, she let go of my dress.

Vindiego scooped her up with a grunt, standing tall. He turned to us, his face a mask of polite indifference, as if he hadn't just threatened a toddler’s toy. "My apologies. She has... fantasies. I will see you both downstairs for dinner."

He turned and strode away, Sofia’s small face peering over his shoulder, her eyes still locked on mine until they vanished around the corner.

Andrea and I stood in the silence of the hallway for a long beat.

"Well," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "That wasn't awkward at all."

"Move," Andrea muttered, adjusting his cuffs. "We're late."



Dinner was a slow-motion car crash. The table was lined with faces I didn't recognize, men with hard eyes and women with frozen smiles but my focus was entirely on the head of the table.

Andrea and Vindiego weren't talking, not with words. But every time their eyes met, there was a silent, violent communication happening over the silver platters.

Vindiego would look at me, then at Andrea, a smirk playing on his lips. Andrea would respond with a clench of his jaw that looked like it might shatter bone.

Finally, before the main course was even cleared, Vindiego stood up. Luigi, a word? In the library?"

Andrea stood without a second's hesitation. "Of course."

They walked out, leaving a vacuum of silence in their wake. I knew why. I knew it was Sofia. I knew it was that word: 'Mommy.'

Suddenly, my stomach did a violent somersault. The rich scent of the lamb and the heavy perfume of the woman next to me became unbearable.

"Excuse me," I muttered to the table at large. The men had already pivoted the conversation toward their wives, comparing them like late-model Ferraris.

I slipped away, my heels clicking frantically against the marble as I sought the bathroom. But as I passed the heavy oak doors of the library, a familiar rumble of voices stopped me cold.

I pressed my back against the wall, creeping closer until I could hear the sharp edge of Andrea’s voice.

"What the hell happened back there, Vindiego?" Andrea hissed. "Why does that child think my wife is her mother?"

There was a pause, the sound of a glass being set down. Then, Vindiego’s voice, oily and amused. "The truth is, Andrea... the truth is much simpler than you think. You see…"

CRACK.

My elbow caught a porcelain vase on a pedestal behind me. It wobbled for a terrifying second before crashing to the floor, shattering into a thousand white teeth.

Inside the library, the voices stopped.

"Who’s there?" Andrea shouted.

Steps thundered toward the door. My heart hammered against my ribs, this was it. My fate was finished. I was caught, and in this house, eavesdropping seemed to have a death sentence.

But just as the door began to creak open, a piercing, high-pitched female scream ripped through the foyer from the front entrance.

"He's my fucking fiancee and no one else!"

I spun around, my breath hitching. In the grand entryway, a woman was standing over a cowering maid, her ginger hair wild, her designer coat discarded on the floor.

I blinked, the blood rushing back to my face. I knew that voice. I knew that entitlement.

"Michelle," I whispered.