Chapter 22
TWENTY-ONE
VALENTINA MUNIZ
My fingers tightened hard around the waistband of my black skirt as I stared at the scuffed white floor of the small waiting room in the courthouse.
My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat, and no matter how many times I told myself to breathe, the anxiety kept climbing with every passing minute.
“Hey. Breathe,” Júlia whispered beside me, reaching for my hand and lacing her fingers through mine. “It’s going to be okay, Val.”
I looked up at her and tried to smile, but what came out was a weak, worried grimace.
“I don’t know if it will,” I admitted quietly, hating how vulnerable my voice sounded. “Enrico isn’t playing. He wants my daughter, and he’s not willing to negotiate.”
“He can refuse to negotiate all he wants,” Júlia said, squeezing my hand tighter, giving me the steadiness I desperately needed. “He doesn’t get to decide this by force. Clara is cared for. She’s happy. She’s safe with you. No judge is going to change that just because Enrico Ferrara is powerful.”
I wanted to believe her more than anything.
But it was impossible to forget that since Enrico reappeared, my entire life had become unstable—uncertain, shifting under my feet.
And now the one thing I had always been sure of—Clara—was being threatened by him.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose her,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I won’t survive it.”
“Hey.” Júlia cupped my face and forced me to meet her eyes. “You’re not losing anyone. Clara is your daughter. You raised her, you love her, and no court can erase that. Do you hear me?”
I nodded, swallowing hard, trying to absorb her certainty like medicine.
Júlia was trying to help. I knew that.
But I also knew the justice system wasn’t always just.
The waiting-room door opened abruptly, making me jump. My attorney appeared in the doorway, professional and serious.
“Valentina, they’re ready to begin,” he said. “Are you ready?”
I took a deep breath and squeezed Júlia’s hand one last time before standing.
“No,” I admitted honestly. “I’m not. But we’re going in anyway.”
Júlia gave me an encouraging smile as she stood too.
“I’ll be right here outside,” she said. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”
I returned a small, grateful smile and followed my attorney down the hall, each step making the pressure in my chest tighter.
When we reached the courtroom and I walked through the doors, my eyes found him immediately.
Enrico.
Impeccable, as always.
A dark suit tailored perfectly to his tall, elegant frame. Hair combed back with precision. That beautiful, arrogant face carved into a mask that didn’t crack.
He didn’t look nervous.
He looked like a man who was used to winning—and who expected nothing else.
A shiver ran up my spine, but I lifted my chin and kept walking.
I would not fall apart in front of him.
Not here.
Not now.
Not again.
If someone had told me months ago that I would end up pounding on Enrico Ferrara’s door after midnight, demanding to know why he wanted to take my daughter from me, I would’ve laughed in their face.
And yet that was exactly what I did—one week ago.
That night, after I opened the legal notice threatening the most precious thing in my life, the only thing I could think was why.
Why would Enrico—who seemed so devoted to Clara, so careful with her—move this fast? Why did he need to destroy me in the process?
That was why I drove to the mansion he’d rented in town, heart hammering, and practically invaded it searching for answers.
What I found wasn’t answers.
It was accusations. Grief. Resentment I’d carried for five years, finally erupting with an intensity I couldn’t control anymore.
We screamed. We tore into each other. We threw cruelty like knives until I didn’t know whether I was crying from rage, pain, or pure exhaustion.
But in the middle of that chaos, something else rose—something that made me disgusted with myself.
Desire.
Intense. Dangerous. Completely wrong.
And still it was there—burning in every look, every harsh word, every step too close to avoid.
Now, sitting in a cold courtroom waiting for a hearing that could decide my daughter’s future, I could still feel the echoes of that night.
I could still feel the weight of Enrico’s words… and the unsettling intensity of his presence.
I closed my eyes briefly and shoved the memory away.
Then the judge entered.
My body went rigid, snapping back into the present as everyone rose and sat again. I couldn’t stop my gaze from sliding—just once—toward Enrico.
He remained impassive, posture confident, unshaken. Like he didn’t have the slightest doubt how this would end.
My attorney touched my arm gently, pulling me back, as the judge began to speak—his voice deep, authoritative, filling the room.
“We are here today for the preliminary hearing in the matter of legal establishment of paternity and petition for custody, brought by Mr. Enrico Ferrara against Ms. Valentina Muniz, concerning the minor child Clara Muniz.”
Every word tightened around my heart.
My stomach churned. My hands went cold. The vulnerability was almost suffocating.
I never wanted it to come to this. No matter how much fear or resentment I’d carried, I never set out to deprive Clara of a father. But everything had happened so fast—so violently outside my control—that now I felt lost inside the chaos my life had become.
“As to the DNA test requested by the petitioner,” the judge continued, flipping through the report on his bench, “the results are conclusive. Mr. Enrico Ferrara is, in fact, the biological father of the minor child Clara Muniz.”
It wasn’t news to anyone, but a quiet murmur moved through the room. I inhaled slowly, fighting the emotions rising in my throat.
I had known from the beginning there would be no other result.
But hearing it said out loud—coldly, formally, in this room—made it more real.
Against my will, my eyes went back to Enrico.
For the first time that day, he looked directly at me.
Our gazes collided—sharp with resentment, heavy with questions never asked and answers never given.
And in that brief, violent second, I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before.
Vulnerability.
It lasted less than a heartbeat—but it was enough to leave me shaken.
The judge kept speaking, but his voice faded into the pounding in my ears. I knew this was only the first battle of many. And what terrified me most was the realization that despite everything, I still wasn’t ready to face Enrico Ferrara like this.
Not with the past still alive inside me.
But there was no turning back.
I had to find the strength to fight with everything I had—even if it meant confronting my own feelings, my own history, and the man I had never fully managed to forget.
The judge adjusted his glasses and motioned for Enrico’s attorney to begin.
My heartbeat spiked again as the man rose with confident ease. Enrico didn’t look at me now—his eyes were forward, his expression blank, unreadable.
“Your Honor,” his attorney began, polished but firm, “we are here today facing an injustice. My client, Mr. Enrico Ferrara, was deliberately deprived of all contact with his daughter for five years. During that time, he had no knowledge of her existence, losing irreplaceable, precious moments of her life. This deprivation has caused emotional harm not only to my client, but potentially to the child as well.”
Heat rushed into my face.
I wanted to scream that it wasn’t true—that I never denied him anything, that he denied us first—
But I swallowed every word, gripping my trembling hands on the table as the attorney continued.
“There is no doubt that the best outcome for the child is meaningful involvement with both parents,” he said.
“However, given the financial, educational, and emotional stability my client can provide, we are requesting that primary custody be awarded to Mr. Ferrara. He has the resources necessary to ensure the child has a safe, balanced, healthy life in every respect.”
I shut my eyes for a brief moment, fighting humiliation and rage.
I had never felt so wronged in my life.
My attorney touched my arm—steadying me—and I forced myself to breathe.
It was our turn.
“Your Honor,” my attorney began, respectful but firm, “the statements presented by opposing counsel are distorted and unfair. My client, Ms. Valentina Muniz, never acted with the intention of depriving the child of her father. On the contrary, her actions were shaped by painful circumstances imposed by Mr. Ferrara himself—when he abandoned her at the altar while she was pregnant, leaving her without emotional or financial support.”
The room seemed to tighten.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Enrico shift slightly—uncomfortable, irritated by the direct mention of the past he always wanted buried.
“For five years,” my attorney continued, “Ms. Muniz raised Clara alone, providing a loving, stable, emotionally healthy environment. She is an exemplary mother, fully capable of raising her daughter with security and consistent care. Parental fitness cannot be measured by financial power alone—especially when the child has never lacked stability or support up to this point.”
Tears burned behind my eyes—not only because of his words, but because of the memories that came with them. The nights Clara and I survived. The days we rebuilt. The life I fought for.
The judge listened with a neutral expression, but it was clear he sensed the deeper conflict between Enrico and me—an old, personal war bleeding into this legal one. The air felt heavy with unsaid history.
After a few more brief arguments, the judge cleared his throat and signaled for attention.