Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Sylvia’s POV

The morning light felt softer than yesterday’s, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside me.

I hadn’t really slept. My mind ran in circles all night, replaying Derek’s voice, Abigail’s smirk, and the faint blue lines that had changed everything.

Pregnant.

The word still felt foreign, too heavy to fit inside me.

I’d stared at that test until my tears blurred the result, whispering prayers to no one, then driven back through the sleeping city with a secret burning in my chest.

Now, as I sat by the window with a cup of tea gone cold, the mansion around me was silent. Even the walls seemed cautious. Derek had left early; I heard the low growl of his car before sunrise. Maybe to the docks. Maybe to bury his anger where bullets and men listened better than hearts.

Part of me wanted him here.

Another part was grateful for the quiet. I needed it. I needed to think.

Abigail’s face haunted every thought — that smug confidence, that paper she waved like a sword.

If she’d faked pregnancy results once, she could do it again. I knew her patterns: bold lies dressed in just enough truth to look real.

And I wasn’t going to let her win this time.

I set my cup down and pulled Derek’s laptop toward me. The screen lit my face pale blue as I typed into the search bar, hands trembling slightly.

“How to verify private clinic records.”

Results flooded the screen — mostly legal talk, some technical jargon. I read for hours, cross-checking clinic names until one matched the logo I’d seen on Abigail’s paper. Silverlake Women’s Center.

A small clinic in downtown morroco .

I clicked the link and scrolled through smiling photos of doctors and expectant mothers. Ordinary. Innocent. But Abigail had never been either.

I jotted the clinic number down on a scrap of paper and dialed from the study phone, disguising my voice. “Hi, this is Mrs. Reyes. I’m calling about a verification on a patient’s document—”

The receptionist interrupted, polite but firm: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t release patient information without authorization.”

Of course.

I thanked her, hung up, and rubbed my temples.

There had to be another way.

That was when I heard the knock — two sharp raps and one softer one. Matteo’s pattern.

“Come in,” I called.

He stepped inside, tall, broad, his usual smirk softened into something like concern. “Boss said you might need company. He’s out handling… things.”

I looked up, arching a brow. “He sent you to babysit me?”

“More like guard you from yourself.” He leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you get before you decide to jump into a fire without shoes.”

Despite myself, I almost smiled. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting for other people to put them out.”

Matteo’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve got something in mind.”

I hesitated. I trusted him — Derek did too — but this wasn’t just about secrets anymore. It was about survival.

“I need information,” I said quietly. “About Abigail. The clinic she mentioned — Silverlake Women’s Center. She brought a document yesterday that looked official. I want to know if it’s real.”

He whistled low. “You think she faked a pregnancy test?”

“I don’t think,” I murmured. “I know.”

Matteo studied me for a long second, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll handle it. You stay put.”

“Matteo—”

He lifted a hand. “I’ve done worse for less reason. I’ll find someone inside the clinic. If she forged papers, we’ll know by tonight.”

Relief untied something in my chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “If Abigail’s mixed up with one of Derek’s rivals, this rabbit hole might not end with a polite phone call.”

“I can handle that.”

His lips twitched. “Yeah. I believe you can.”

When he left, the air felt different — charged. For the first time in days, I wasn’t just drowning; I was swimming toward something.

By noon, I was still in the study, papers scattered everywhere — printouts of the clinic’s logo, Abigail’s signature from old contracts, even screenshots of her social media posts. Patterns emerged slowly, like ghosts rising through smoke.

Every lie leaves fingerprints. I just had to find hers.

The door creaked again, softer this time.

“Sweetheart?”

My mother’s voice.

I froze, guilt punching through me. She shouldn’t have been out of bed yet. The fainting spell had scared us all yesterday.

“Mom?” I rushed to her side, still scared to face her. “You shouldn’t be walking around.”

She smiled faintly, still a little pale but steady. “I’m not made of glass, darling. The doctor said it was just stress. Besides—” her eyes flicked to the cluttered desk “—you’ve been locked in here all morning. I thought I’d check if my daughter still remembers how to eat.”

“What's going,I can't believe those sweet names came from my mother's mouth not after all these dramas and chaos.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “I’m fine.”

She cupped my cheek gently. “You look like I used to before I found out I was expecting you.”

My heart stuttered. “Mom—”

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said softly. “A mother knows. You don’t have to say anything.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. “It’s… complicated.”

“It always is,” she whispered. “But complicated doesn’t mean cursed, I'm only concerned that of all people you fell in love with you own Stepbrother- that's not the case now.”

I pressed my lips together, afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d break.

“Come,” she said finally, tugging my hand. “The kitchen. I made soup.”

The smell of chicken broth and ginger wrapped around me the moment we stepped inside. Steam fogged the windowpanes. For a second, it felt like the world outside — the mafias, the betrayals, the lies — didn’t exist.

Mom ladled soup into a bowl, her movements slow but precise. “You remember what I told you when you were little? That every problem looks smaller with food in your stomach.”

I smiled faintly. “I remember.”

“Good. Then eat.”

I did — mostly to please her — and the warmth settled in my chest. But as I ate, she studied me the way only mothers can, seeing everything I was trying to hide.

“You’re not just scared of Abigail,” she said suddenly. “You’re scared of what she might destroy inside you.”

My spoon paused.

She reached across the table, covering my hand. “Whatever she’s done, whatever she’ll try next — don’t let her steal your peace. Or your child’s.”

A tear slipped before I could stop it. “How can I protect anyone when I can’t even control what happens around me?”

“You can’t control people, Sylvia,” she said gently. “You can only control the truth. And truth has a way of coming home.”

Her words sank deep — simple, powerful. I swallowed hard. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” She smiled, smoothing my hair like she did when I was small. “That’s why you’ll succeed.”

The front door opened then — footsteps heavy, confident. Matteo’s voice echoed faintly from the hallway. “Mrs. Navarro, you look well.”

She chuckled. “Trying to be.”

He stepped into the kitchen, eyes flicking between us. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Never,” Mom said, rising slowly. “But I’ll let you two talk. Sylvia, finish your soup. You’re eating for two now.”

She winked and left before I could respond. My face burned, but Matteo only raised a brow. “Moms, huh?”

“Don’t,” I warned, half-smiling through the ache. “What did you find?”

He pulled an envelope from his jacket and set it on the table. “You were right. The document Abigail showed yesterday — fake. The clinic confirmed the serial number doesn’t exist. She bribed a nurse to stamp the logo, but the test result’s format was outdated. It’s from three years ago.”

I exhaled shakily. “Three years…”

“Before you and Derek even met,” he said. “She recycled an old report and changed the name.”

My hands clenched. “She forged everything.”

“Seems so.”

I stood, adrenaline rushing. “Then we can expose her.”

Matteo’s gaze darkened. “Careful. She’s not stupid. If you confront her too soon, she’ll spin it — claim you’re jealous, unstable. We need proof that sticks.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ll get the nurse who helped her to talk. Quietly. But you, stay here. Keep calm. Let Derek handle the public side when the time comes.”

I wanted to argue, but he was right. The last thing Derek needed was more chaos.

“Thank you,” I said finally.

He nodded once. “For what it’s worth, Sylvia — Abigail’s cornered. She’s running scared. That’s when people like her get dangerous.”

“I’m counting on it,” I said softly.

When he left, I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the half-empty bowl of soup. My reflection wavered on the spoon’s surface — tired, yes, but no longer broken.

Mom’s words echoed again: You can only control the truth.

So I would.

I walked back to the study and pulled open the drawer where Derek kept his encrypted files. Inside was a small flash drive marked with the Stratus crest — Abigail’s family name. Derek had confiscated it months ago during one of their feuds. He’d said it contained “garbage.” Maybe it contained more.

I plugged it into the laptop. A folder opened: Medical_Records / Personal_Photos / Contracts.

My pulse quickened as I clicked through. Half the files were empty — deleted. But one document remained, timestamped two weeks ago.

A message popped up as it loaded: Property of A. Stratus — Confidential.

My hands trembled. The document was an invoice — a payment of fifty thousand dollars to a woman named Nora Cline. The same name the nurse from Silverlake used on her ID badge.

Matteo had been right.

I copied everything to a new drive, hid it beneath a pile of folders, and closed the laptop just as footsteps echoed down the hall again.

Derek’s voice this time — low, tired, rough.

“Sylvia?”

My heart jumped, but I steadied my voice. “In here.”

He appeared at the doorway, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense but eyes softer than I expected.

“You’re still awake,” he said quietly.

“Barely.”

He studied me a moment longer. Something in his gaze softened — maybe the same intuition my mother had. He walked closer, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “You look… different.”

“Different how?”

“Calmer,” he said. “But dangerous. Like you’re planning something.”

I smiled faintly. “Maybe I am.”

He tilted his head. “Should I worry?”

“Only if you’re on Abigail’s side,” I said.

He huffed a short laugh. “Then I’ll sleep fine.”

He leaned down, kissed my forehead, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal — just two people trying to hold their world together.

When he left, I exhaled slowly, turning back to the window whe

re dusk had begun to fall. The city lights blinked like secrets waiting to be found.

I touched my stomach lightly. “We’re going to be okay,” I whispered. “Mommy’s not done fighting yet.”

And this time, I meant every word.