43.
DANTE FERRAZ
Otávio signed the agreement three weeks later.
The confession was one hundred and eighty-four pages long.
I read all of them.
Aurora did too.
Not together.
We needed space to process it.
He admitted to:
diverting and replacing works of art;
money laundering;
forging documents;
manipulating recordings;
fraud against Aurora;
bribing experts;
issuing threats;
ordering the sabotage of Henrique and Helena Valen?a’s car;
indirect involvement in álvaro’s death.
My father appeared as the original financier of the art scheme, but not the murder.
It did not lessen the crime.
It changed its nature.
Ant?nio Ferraz believed he was buying clandestine pieces from private collections.
Later, he learned some were stolen.
He continued.
When Aurora’s father threatened to report them, my father wanted to purchase his silence.
Otávio chose murder.
My father discovered it months later.
There was a letter.
You exceeded what I authorized. There will be no further payments.
Otávio kept it.
Blackmail.
My father died six months later of a heart attack.
Perhaps guilt.
Perhaps disease.
I would never know.
Truth did not create closure.
It merely redistributed the weight.
The confession also detailed the plan against Aurora.
Otávio realized she was investigating.
He knew the wedding would place the museum under a Ferraz Group audit.
He used my fear.
My first wife had died years earlier in an accident.
After that, I developed a need for control.
Otávio knew.
He fed the idea that Aurora was using me.
The recording.
Miguel.
Money.
Pregnancy.
Everything was designed so I would interpret it as loss of control.
It worked.
That part was mine.
No manipulation forced the words I spoke at the altar.
I chose them.
The morning I finished reading, I went to the studio.
Aurora was alone.
The children were at school.
I placed the confession on the table.
“I finished.”
“So did I.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t know.”
“May I begin?”
She nodded.
“Otávio studied me. Used Beatriz’s death.”
Aurora became still.
We rarely spoke about my first wife.
“That does not justify it,” I continued.
“No.”
“But it explains part of it.”
“Yes.”
“I allowed fear to become character.”
“How?”
“I thought controlling everything would protect me from losing someone again. When the evidence said you deceived me, I preferred to destroy before being destroyed.”
Aurora breathed.
“I am not Beatriz.”
“I know.”
“She died. I was alive and speaking to you.”
“Yes.”
“And you treated me as the threat.”
“Yes.”
Repeating the altar still hurt.
It needed to.
“Did you love me?” she asked.
“Very much.”
“Then love was not enough.”
“No.”
“What is enough?”
“Nothing by itself.”
She waited.
“Love, character, listening, humility, transparency, consistency. Perhaps.”
“Books?”
“Therapy.”
She almost smiled.
“And now?”
“Now I’m afraid of losing you.”
“And what do you do with that?”
“I say it.”
“Without controlling?”
“I try.”
“Are you afraid now?”
“Very.”
“Why?”
“Because after reading this, you may decide staying with me keeps you attached to the name that killed your parents.”
Aurora closed her eyes.
“I thought about it.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“Your name was connected to their death. You were not.”
“But I carry it.”
“I carried Valen?a while Otávio used it.”
“It is not the same.”
“It does not need to be.”
She came closer.
“I do not want you changing your surname.”
“I would.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be a gesture too large for a problem solved through small actions.”
She had learned.
“All right.”
“I also wondered whether sex happened because I was vulnerable.”
“And?”
“The second time has not happened yet.”
“Technically…”
“No.”
“All right.”
“But I want it.”
My body reacted.
“Now?”
“No.”
“Cruel.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
Aurora smiled.
“I want it because I desire you, not because I’m afraid.”
“All right.”
“And I want to acknowledge that we are in a relationship.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Not marriage.”
“All right.”
“Not living together.”
“All right.”
“No public announcement.”
“All right.”
“But an exclusive relationship.”
“Dating?”
She made a face.
“Sounds adolescent.”
“Partners?”
“Worse.”
“A couple?”
Aurora hesitated.
“Yes.”
The word struck more powerfully than any business agreement.
“We are a couple?”
“We are trying to be.”
“May I kiss you?”
“You may.”
I approached.
The kiss was slow.
Without urgency.
Aurora held my shirt.
“Do not make that face,” she whispered.
“You aren’t looking.”
“I can feel it.”
I smiled against her mouth.
“May I tell the psychologist?”
“Unfortunately.”
“The children?”
She moved away.
“We need to.”
“Today?”
“Maybe.”
“You say maybe now.”
“Growth.”
We collected the triplets.
In the car, before leaving school, Aurora turned around.
“We have something to tell you.”
Elisa’s eyes widened.
“Baby?”
Both of us froze.
“No!” Aurora answered.
“Then wedding?”
“Not that either.”
“Bicycle?”
“No.”
Tomás became irritated.
“Then nothing good.”
Cecília held her cloth.
“You fighting?”
“No,” I said. “Mommy and I decided that we are together.”
Silence.
Elisa asked:
“Together where?”
“As a couple,” Aurora explained.
“What’s couple?”
“Two people who like each other and choose to try to build a relationship.”
She spoke to three-year-olds as if giving a lecture.
“You kiss,” Tomás summarized.
“That too,” I answered.
Elisa clapped.
“Get married.”
“Not now,” Aurora said.
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Day after.”
“Elisa.”
Cecília looked at us.
“Daddy lives house?”
“His house,” Aurora said.
“Why?”
“Because we are not living together yet.”
“But couple lives.”
“Some do not.”
“Ms. Marta does.”
“Every family is different.”
The old phrase.
Cecília processed it.
“Daddy goes away?”
“To his house,” I said. “And returns on the days we arrange.”
“But couple.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t understand.”
Aurora held out her hand.
“You don’t need to understand everything now.”
“Puzzle fit?”
I looked at Aurora.
“Some pieces,” she answered.
Cecília smiled.
“Good.”
Tomás asked for a snack.
Elisa returned to marriage.
The news was absorbed without ceremony.
To them, we were already connected.
The word couple merely confirmed something they had drawn for weeks.
That afternoon, we held a meeting about the museum.
The foundation would be created.
Independent board.
Aurora as executive director and technical lead.
The Ferraz Group would finance the restoration through a legal settlement.
The city would participate.
Recovery of the pieces.
Archives.
A memorial concerning the crime.
“I want a room about forgery and collection ethics,” Aurora said.
“Including my father.”
“Including everyone.”
“And you?”
“My accusation too.”
“Are you certain?”
“It is part of the history.”
“It may hurt.”
“Readable history.”
Restoration.
I nodded.
That evening, we went to my house with the children.
Dinner.
Baths.
Stories.
Elisa asked whether couples slept together.
Aurora almost dropped her cup.
“Sometimes.”
“Today?”
“Not your concern.”
“Then yes.”
“Elisa.”
She laughed.
After they slept, Aurora remained in the living room.
I sat beside her.
“Will you sleep here?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“With me?”
“Maybe.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“It means I’m enjoying torturing you.”
“I noticed.”
We kissed.
Desire grew.
But we did not continue.
The children were inside the house.
A boundary.
“Hotel tomorrow,” I said.
Aurora laughed.
“No.”
“Mrs. Lurdes could…”
“Do not organize.”
“All right.”
“But tomorrow I have work in Belo Horizonte.”
“A hotel there.”
She looked at me.
“Do you have a meeting?”
“I am on leave.”
“Can you come?”
“If invited.”
“I invite you.”
My body reacted.
“Work first.”
“Of course.”
“Separate rooms.”
Disappointment came.
Aurora smiled.
“At first.”
“Cruel.”
“Very.”
The next morning, we traveled.
Mrs. Lurdes and Marta stayed with the children until the following day.
The first night Aurora would spend away for both personal choice and work.
She called four times.
On the fifth, Cecília told her to stop.
“You come back tomorrow. I know.”
Aurora cried after the call.
“That is good,” I said.
“My daughter told me to stop.”
“Because she trusts you.”
“Mrs. Lurdes.”
“And that you will return.”
I held her hand.
The work at the museum ended at seven.
We had dinner.
Separate rooms in the same corridor.
At ten, someone knocked on my door.
Aurora entered.
Simple dress.
Hair down.
Determined eyes.
“Still separate?” I asked.
“I changed my mind.”
She closed the door.
That time, there was no recent wound.
No police station.
No studio.
No children in the room next door.
Only us.
“Are you certain?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And afterward?”
“Tomorrow we are still a couple.”
The answer destroyed my control.
I kissed her.
Aurora responded.
The night was unhurried.
We had time.
To undress.
Look.
Ask.
Laugh when my shoulder still restricted one movement.
Adjust.
She touched me without fear.
I learned every response.
We made love in the bed.
Then in the shower.
Later, again, slowly.
In the dark, Aurora slept on my chest.
Before closing her eyes, she said:
“I will still have bad days.”
“I know.”
“I will remember.”
“I know.”
“I may accuse you of things you are not doing now.”
“I will ask where it is coming from.”
“And if I tell you to leave?”
“I will ask whether you need space or it is the end.”
She lifted her face.
“Good answer.”
“Therapy.”
“It works.”
“A little.”
Aurora kissed my chest.
“A little is good.”
She fell asleep.
I remained awake for only a few minutes.
Not to watch her.
Not to control.
Only to feel.
Aurora was with me.
Choosing.
The following day, we would return to three children, an investigation, the museum, and a complicated life.
But now there was an us.
Not perfect.
Not erased.
Real.