Chapter 146 CHAPTER 146 – TWENTY YEARS LATER

Chapter 146 CHAPTER 146 – TWENTY YEARS LATER

POV: Mateo Ferrer

The plane touched down on the runway at Miami Airport at six in the morning, and I felt my stomach drop with the same impact.
Five years.
Five years running away, and now I was back.
I looked out the window as we taxied toward the terminal, the sun beginning to rise over a city I knew by heart but that somehow felt completely foreign after so long in Paris. The heat hit me the second I stepped off the plane—that humid Florida heat that slaps you in the face and that no European summer can replicate.
I forgot this, I thought as I walked down the jet bridge toward the terminal. I forgot what it feels like to be here, to carry the Ferrer last name in this city where everyone knows my parents’ story, where every introduction comes with that awkward pause when people connect the dots.
“Ferrer? Like Emmanuel Ferrer who married his…?”
Yes. Like that Emmanuel Ferrer.
My father.
The man who waited eleven years for forbidden love and who now has three children who grew up as living proof that love won in the end—but not without leaving scars on us that no one else can see.

I grabbed my suitcase from the carousel, feeling the looks I had felt my entire life—that subtle scrutiny from people who think you don’t notice when they discreetly point and whisper to whoever is standing next to them.
Twenty-five years since my parents’ wedding, and people still murmur.
Twenty-five years, and we are still Miami’s favorite scandal.
I grew up with it—with the comments people thought I didn’t hear at family events, at company galas, anywhere someone new arrived and innocently asked about the family dynamic.
“Did you know Emmanuel and Isabella were technically uncle and niece?”
“They don’t share blood, but still…”
“Eleven years waiting—can you imagine the scandal?”
I didn’t have to imagine it. I lived it from the inside, every day of my childhood reminded that I was the product of a love half the world thought was wrong, no matter how happy my parents were.
And now I was back after five years in Paris where nobody knew who the hell Mateo Ferrer was or cared about his parents’ story—where I could just be me without the weight of expectations or judgment or that constant unspoken question everyone asked without saying it out loud.
“Are you going to repeat your father’s pattern?”
Turns out, yes.
But in ways no one could have anticipated.

I saw Lucia before she saw me, standing in arrivals holding a ridiculous sign that read “MATEO FERRER, PRETENTIOUS ARCHITECT” in huge letters that made half the airport laugh as I walked past.
My sister.
Twenty-two years old and still with the sarcastic sense of humor she inherited directly from Dad, combined with Mom’s natural beauty that made men stumble when she walked by without even noticing because she had never been vain.
—Welcome home, pretentious brother —she said when I reached her, hugging me so tightly she nearly cracked my ribs.
—That sign was completely unnecessary.
—Totally necessary. You’ve spent five years in Paris acting like you’re too sophisticated for us. I had to remind you that here, you impress no one.
—My French is impeccable.
—Your French is pretentious. There’s a difference.
We walked toward the parking lot, and she didn’t stop talking, updating me on everything I’d missed in the months I stopped answering calls with the excuse of being busy with my thesis when in reality I was too busy trying not to think about Miami, about family, about everything I’d left behind.
Luciano Jr. accepted into medical school.
Mom winning another international award.
Dad considering partial retirement.
Grandma Luciana more fragile every day but still clinging to life with the stubbornness that defines our family.
I listened, processing information without really feeling it yet because my mind was elsewhere—specifically in Paris three months ago when my life exploded in ways I still didn’t know how to handle.
—Are you even listening? —Lucia asked, and only then did I realize she had stopped talking, waiting for a response to something I hadn’t heard.
—Sorry. I’m tired from the flight.
—Lie. I’ve known you since you were born. I know when you’re lying, and you’re lying right now.
—I’m not—
—Mateo —she cut in, her tone shifting from teasing to serious in half a second—. You’ve been weird for months. You stopped calling. Your texts were two words long. Mom is worried, even though she pretends she’s not. Dad too.
—I was busy.
—With what exactly? You finished your thesis four months ago and still disappeared.
I stared out the window as we exited the parking lot onto the highway, Miami stretching beneath the bright sun that made me squint after months of gray Parisian skies.
—I needed space —I finally said, because it was true. Just not the whole truth.
—From what?
—From everything. From being the son of Emmanuel and Isabella Ferrer. From carrying that story every time I introduced myself to someone. From the expectations that come with this last name.
Lucia fell silent for a moment as she drove.
—You never told me it affected you that much.
—Because you’re stronger. You always have been. You don’t care what people think. But I did. Every comment. Every look. Every time someone innocently asked about our parents and I had to decide whether to give the full version or the softened one.
—And which version did you give?
—Depends how honest I felt that day. Sometimes I said they fell in love young and had to wait. Other times I admitted they were technically family but not by blood. Rarely did I tell the full story because the full story scares people.
—Scares them or fascinates them?
—Both. Which is worse. Because then they look at you like a social experiment instead of a person.
Lucia glanced at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before—something between pity and understanding.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were carrying all that.
—It’s not your fault. It’s just the reality of being who I am—the son of an impossible love that somehow worked but left marks on all of us.
—Is that what you learned in Paris? That you’re marked?
—I learned you can’t run from who you are —I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended—. That our parents’ story isn’t a curse. It’s a lesson. And maybe understanding that lesson is more important than I thought.
—You met someone.
It wasn’t a question.
My sister had always read me better than anyone.
—Yes.
—And?
—And it’s complicated. More complicated than anything you can imagine.
—Try me. I grew up in this family. Complicated is our baseline.
I wanted to tell her everything right there, unload the weight I had been carrying alone for months, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not when I had just landed and was already exhausted just from being back in Miami.
—After the family dinner —I promised—. I’ll tell you everything after I see Mom and Dad. After I process being here.
—Is it that bad?
—It’s worse than you can imagine. And better at the same time.
—That makes no sense.
—I know. That’s why I need to process it before explaining it.
Lucia didn’t push further, but I saw in her expression that she had connected some dots—though not all of them yet. My sister was too smart for her own good sometimes.

We arrived at my new apartment in Brickell that I had rented without seeing in person, just online photos promising a water view and enough space to turn the second bedroom into a studio.
—Tomorrow is dinner at the beach house —Lucia said, helping me carry my suitcase upstairs—. The whole family will be there. Uncles, cousins, grandmothers. Everyone excited to see you.
My stomach tightened imagining facing them all—the questions about Paris, about why I pulled away, about what I learned, about who I was now after five years away.
—Can I fake jet lag and skip it?
—You can. But Mom would come drag you there personally.
—Right.
Lucia hugged me before leaving.
—I missed you, brother. It’s good to have you back. Even if you’re acting weird.
—I missed you too.
When she left, I stood alone in the empty apartment, staring at boxes that would arrive in a few days with everything I’d shipped from Paris—my entire five-year life packed into twenty boxes that I now had to unpack and integrate into this new reality.
I pulled out my phone and looked at the last photo I had saved, taken three months ago in Paris before everything blew up.
Me, smiling.
And her beside me—beautiful, happy, with no idea what was coming next.
Sofía Ramos.
My cousin.
The daughter of Uncle Mateo Jr.
The woman I had fallen hopelessly in love with without knowing who she was until it was too late.
I locked the phone and exhaled.
Tomorrow I would face the family.
Tomorrow I would see my parents.
And eventually, I would have to tell them that I had done exactly what everyone feared.
I had repeated their story.
Only worse.
Much worse.