Chapter 16 16

Chapter 16 16
Damiano
The second I got the call, my world stopped.
Vincent’s voice was sharp, urgent — “Aurora collapsed at the café. They rushed her to the clinic.”
My blood ran cold.
I dropped everything. Left the meeting mid-sentence, didn’t care who I was talking to, didn’t care what I was risking. I only knew one thing: She needed me.
By the time I reached the clinic, my heart was thundering in my chest like a drum of war. I’ve stared down guns, bloodshed, betrayal. But nothing prepared me for the sight of her lying unconscious in that hospital bed. Pale. Fragile. Too quiet.
And then the doctor came.
His words punched the breath out of my lungs. "She had a miscarriage."
I remember blinking at him like he was speaking another language. Miscarriage? No. That couldn’t be. She was pregnant? My heart dropped.
A baby.
Our baby.
I sat beside her bed, unable to move, unable to think. Everything around me blurred, the smell of antiseptic, the murmurs of the nurses outside the door, the steady beep of her monitor. None of it mattered. My eyes stayed on her. Her hand in mine. Her face, still etched with pain.
And guilt. God, the guilt.
I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the signs. But I’d been so wrapped up in trying to set her free, trying to do the right thing, I didn’t see what was happening to her.
She hadn’t been with anyone since she returned. I knew that. I knew that baby was mine. The timeline, the way she looked at me before I let her go, everything fit. It was our child. And I lost them both.
Again.
I felt something crack inside me.
Four years ago, I buried the woman I thought I’d spend my life with. Bella. She was pregnant, too. We were supposed to get married. And then the lies unraveled, the betrayal, the cheating. She ran from the confrontation… and ended up in a grave. I never got to find out the truth, if the baby was mine, if she ever really loved me.
Since then, I swore I'd never let myself fall that deep again.
And yet… here I am.
Staring at Aurora. At the woman who was never supposed to mean so much to me. The woman who made me want again. Hope again.
She didn’t even know she was carrying my child.
And now she never will.
My hand gripped hers tighter as a tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. The pain was unbearable. The ache settled deep in my chest like a bullet I couldn't remove.
And when she opened her eyes, those beautiful, storm-filled eyes, everything inside me shattered all over again. Because I saw the pain in her, too. The confusion. The quiet, broken grief.
I leaned in and kissed her forehead, not knowing what to say that could possibly make this better. But I knew one thing for certain.
I wasn’t going to leave her again.
Not now. Not in this.
I’m not a man who begs. I’m not soft. But I do protect what’s mine. And Aurora. She’s mine in ways she doesn’t even understand yet.
So I’ll stay.
I’ll be here.
Through the mourning. Through the healing. Through every sleepless night and aching silence.
Even if she never loves me the way I love her, even if this pain never leaves me, I will not let her face it alone.
Not this time.
Aurora
The morning light pours through the windows in warm golden streaks, casting a soft glow across the wooden floors of my small apartment.It didn’t bother Damiano at all, my tiny apartment, the creaky furniture, the narrow hallway that barely fit the two of us side by side. He adjusted, effortlessly.
He shared my bed without complaint, his tall frame somehow folding into the limited space like he belonged there. We had dinner in my small living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor when the table felt too cramped. He didn’t flinch at the chipped plates or the uneven floorboards. If anything, he seemed to enjoy the simplicity.
I brushed my teeth while he took a shower in the same bathroom, laughing when we bumped into each other by the sink. The closeness felt easy. Natural.
We didn’t need luxury or space to feel something growing between us, something real. In that small apartment, with its humming radiator and fading wallpaper, we became more than what we were before.
We became us.
 Damiano is sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding my sweaters in a way that is far too meticulous for someone like him. There’s a quiet ease to him today, a softness in his expression that settles something in me.
I kneel beside him, slipping another book into the open suitcase. “Are you sure about this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damiano looks at me, his eyes holding mine. “New York, a fresh start. Just me and you. Yes, I’m sure.” His words are simple, but they anchor me, steady and certain.
We keep packing in a gentle rhythm, the silence between us comfortable. Every once in a while, our hands brush, and he offers me a small smile, one that tells me we’re doing the right thing.
As I reach for the old box tucked in the corner of the closet, a layer of dust coats my fingers. I pause. My name is scribbled on the top in my mother’s handwriting. I pull it out carefully, and when I open it, I find fragments of the past, a tiny pair of ballet shoes from when I was five, a letter written in my mother’s delicate script, and a photograph of the three of us: my mother, my father, and me, laughing in the sunlight.
My heart clenches.
Damiano notices the change in my breath. He shifts beside me, peering over my shoulder. “What is it?”
I hand him the picture. He stares at it for a long moment, then glances at me. “You look like her.”
“I miss them,” I admit, the words catching in my throat. “Even with everything that happened. Even after everything I know.”
“I know, birdie,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb gently along my cheek. “You don’t have to let go of them to move forward. We carry them with us.”
I nod, swallowing down the emotion rising in my chest. He doesn’t try to fix the moment, he just lets it be, which is exactly what I need.
I slip the letter and photo into my purse, something to keep close as we head into the unknown.
We finish packing in silence, our movements slower now, more thoughtful. The weight of the past is still there, but somehow, it feels lighter with him beside me.
When the last bag is zipped, Damiano stands and offers me his hand.
“New York,” he says, grinning just a little. “Let’s go make some memories of our own.”
I take his hand, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel alone in the world.