Chapter 100 One Hundred
A fragile silence settled.
She searched his face for doubt.
For hesitation.
For a crack she could slip through.
“There were moments,” she said softly. “You can’t deny that. You looked at me like you felt something real.”
“I don't care to remember,” he admitted.
Her shoulders sagged slightly.
“So that’s it?” she asked. “You’re just shutting everything down?”
“I’m redirecting my focus.”
“To what?”
“My son.”
The word landed firmly.
She inhaled slowly.
“So she wins,” Sofia said quietly.
He stiffened. “This isn’t about winning.”
“It always is,” she replied, bitterness creeping in. “She has your child. Of course she wins.”
He stepped closer now, not aggressively, but with unmistakable authority.
“This is not about Antonia,” he said firmly. “This is about me choosing where my energy goes.”
“And it doesn’t go to me.”
“No.”
The finality in that single word seemed to drain the remaining color from her face.
“I came here because I thought maybe,” she whispered, “maybe if we started again, without secrets, without pride, we could build something stronger.”
He regarded her quietly.
“You deserve someone who can give you that,” he said.
“And you can’t?”
“No.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t let the tears fall.
“Is it because of what I did?”
“It’s because of what I need.”
“And what is that?”
“Clarity. Stability. Integrity. I can’t question the foundation of my next relationship. I won’t.”
She wrapped her arms around herself slightly, as if bracing against cold.
“You think I’m incapable of that?”
“I think you made choices that conflict with what I believe in.”
“And you’ve never made mistakes?” she shot back.
“I have,” he said evenly. “But I’m choosing differently now.”
Silence stretched.
She tried once more.
“I can change,” she said softly. “I can prove to you that I’m not who I was.”
He shook his head slightly.
“This isn’t a trial, Sofia. There’s nothing to prove.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m losing something?”
“Because you are.”
Her breath caught.
“I won’t offer you something I can’t fully give.”
Her lips trembled faintly.
The honesty hurt.
But it was clean.
Uncomplicated.
She studied him one last time, searching for the man who once laughed with her over late dinners. The man who had looked at her like he saw possibility.
He was still there.
But he was guarded now.
Fortified.
She nodded slowly.
Acceptance, though reluctant, began to settle across her features.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, before stepping back slightly, creating space between them.
“I hope being a father brings you what you’re looking for,” she said.
He considered that.
“I think it will.”
A long pause.
Then she gave him a small, sad smile.
“You’re going to be a good one.”
Something softened in his expression.
“I intend to be.”
She turned slowly toward the driveway.
He didn’t call her back.
He didn’t hesitate.
When she reached her car, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.
He was still standing in the doorway.
Unmoving.
Resolute.
Then she got inside and drove away.
\---
Antonia had just finished feeding the baby when her phone began to ring.
She was seated on the edge of her bed, her son cradled carefully against her chest, his tiny fingers wrapped around the fabric of her shirt. The apartment was quiet—Lucy had left earlier, and Helen had traveled back home with her husband, to rest. For the first time all day, it was just her and him.
Just mother and child.
The ringing startled her.
She glanced toward the nightstand.
Her breath caught.
Kennedy Calling.
Her heart began to pound instantly,harder than it should have.
She stared at the screen for a moment too long.
He said he would call for updates about the baby.
This is about him, she reminded herself.
Only about him.
She adjusted the baby gently into his crib and wiped her palm against her leggings before answering.
“Hello?”
There was the faintest pause on the other end.
As if he had not expected her voice to sound so close.
“So… you’re resting?” Kennedy asked.
His tone was calm. Controlled.
Too controlled.
“I was,” she replied evenly. “He just finished feeding.”
A quiet breath filtered through the line.
“How is he?”
“He’s good. The pediatrician said he’s gaining weight steadily. His breathing is normal now.”
Another pause.
“That’s good.”
Silence stretched between them.
It wasn’t empty.
It was loaded.
“So,” she said finally, breaking it, “you didn’t call just to ask how he’s doing.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I’ll be back this weekend,” he said.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the bed.
“This weekend?”
“Yes.”
It was only Wednesday.
“That was fast,” she murmured.
“My meetings wrapped up earlier than expected.”
Or perhaps he had worked through them ruthlessly to shorten the trip. She didn’t know. She didn’t ask.
“When exactly?” she asked instead.
“Saturday morning.”
Another silence.
She tried to keep her tone steady. Neutral.
“Alright.”
“I thought it was better to inform you in advance.”
“I appreciate that.”
Her voice was polite.
Distant.
The kind you use with someone who once knew the rhythm of your heartbeat.
“How are you feeling?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught her off guard.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her throat tightened slightly.
“I’m recovering.”
“Your blood pressure?”
“It’s stable.”
“Antonia.”
His voice lowered slightly, it made her stomach flip in a way she hated.
“Yes?” she asked quietly.
“Are you taking your medication?”
She exhaled softly.
“Yes.”
A small pause.
“Good.”
More silence.
The tension thickened.
Because neither of them was saying what they were thinking.
He cleared his throat lightly.
“I want us to sit down when I return.”
Her pulse quickened.
“You already said that.”
“Yes. But this time, I mean properly.”
“Properly?” she echoed.
“Yes. About co-parenting. Structure. Boundaries.”
There it was again.
Boundaries.
A word that felt like a blade.
“I understand,” she said.
“Do you?” he asked.
The question wasn’t accusatory.
It was searching.
She swallowed.
“What exactly are you trying to say, Kennedy?”
A faint exhale escaped him.
“I don’t want confusion.”
“Confusion about what?”
He hesitated.
And in that hesitation, she heard it.
The unspoken.
The old feelings clawing at the surface.
“About where we stand,” he said finally.
She let out a hollow laugh before she could stop herself.
“Where we stand? You made that very clear.”
“And yet it doesn’t feel clear,” he replied.
Her breath stilled.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care, “that when I think about you, it’s not as simple as it should be.”
The air in her lungs thinned.