Chapter 20
Morning comes too bright. For a while, I lie there and watch her sleep. The light touches her hair, and I have to fight the urge to wake her only to see those eyes open for me.
Sofia’s laughter comes down the hall a moment later, high and impatient. The sound drags me out of bed faster than any alarm ever could.
By the time I finish my shower and dressing, the bed is now empty, and I hate the sight of it.
The kitchen smells like espresso and syrup. Sofia is standing on a chair, a crown of construction paper glittering crookedly on her head.
“Papà, it’s today!” she says, arms flailing with excitement. “It’s my play! Bella’s coming, right?”
Isabella looks up from the table, mug in her hands, and smiles at her—soft and certain. “Of course I’m coming, Principessa.”
That should make me happy. It doesn’t.
“No,” I say.
Two heads turn toward me. Sofia’s mouth drops open; Isabella’s smile fades into something dangerous.
“She’s staying home,” I add.
Sofia frowns, confusion washing over her little face. “But—”
“Go find Nicole,” I tell her gently. “Tell her we leave in ten minutes.”
She hesitates, then scampers off down the hall, the paper crown bobbing as she runs.
When the sound of her footsteps disappears, the silence she leaves behind is sharp enough to cut.
Isabella sets her cup down slowly. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
She folds her arms. “You’re worried someone will try again.”
“I’m not risking it.”
“You mean,” she says, voice low, “you don’t want to be seen with me.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t want people to know,” she interrupts, stepping closer. “That I’m here. That I’m not your wife. That I’m the journalist who almost burned your empire down but somehow ended up in your bed. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”
“Bella—”
Her laugh is brittle. “I’m your dirty secret.”
I reach for her, but she pulls back. The words hit harder than she means them to, because I can see the truth behind them—her fear that she’s temporary, that she’ll be erased the moment it’s inconvenient.
She doesn’t understand. She couldn’t.
I close the space between us and catch her face between my hands. “Look at me.”
She does, but there’s worry swimming just beneath the anger.
“I loved my wife,” I say quietly.
The pain that flashes across her eyes is instant, and it nearly undoes me.
I keep going. “I loved her because she gave me Sofia. Because she listened. Because she built a home when I was too busy building walls. But what we had—what I thought was love—doesn’t touch what I feel for you.”
Her breath catches, and I can see her trying to hold still, to decide whether to believe me.
“I feel fire for you, Bella,” I whisper. “A want that’s deeper than anything I’ve known. It’s not simple. It’s not safe. I can’t stand the thought of being away from you. But I can’t take you with me today. Not when there’s a chance someone might be watching.”
For a long time, she says nothing. Then she nods, slow and careful.
“All right,” she murmurs. “Just… come back safe.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
When I leave with Sofia, Isabella stands by the penthouse window, one hand pressed against the glass. The city spills light around her, hair catching gold in the morning sun.
Sofia waves from the car, shouting her name. Isabella waves back, smiling for the little girl’s sake, but her eyes stay on me.
And as the car pulls away, every part of me hates the distance growing between us—
because I already know that for however long I’m gone, she’ll be the only thing I can think about.
The school sits tucked between glass towers and old brick, a strange little island of innocence in the middle of everything I own and everything that’s ruined me.
Sofia skips beside me, her tiny hand swinging in mine, gold paper crown slightly bent, glitter already sticking to my sleeve.
For once, no one’s staring at the Don of New York.
They’re staring at a father walking his daughter into a school auditorium that smells like crayons and coffee.
It’s almost enough to make me believe we’re normal.
She hums under her breath, too excited to stand still, chattering about lines and lights and how she’s sure she’ll remember every word this time.
When she catches me smiling, she gasps, feigning shock. “Papà, are you smiling right now?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“You never smile.”
“I’m smiling now, aren’t I?”
She grins, triumphant. “Because you know I’m the best princess in the whole play.”
“You were born for the crown, Principessa.”
She squeezes my hand, and for a moment I forget everything else—the headlines, the blood, the constant hum of danger that never really leaves my world.
For a moment, I just see her.
My reason. My anchor. My everything.
Inside the auditorium, parents fill the rows—phones out, soft laughter echoing under the cheap stage lights.
I take a seat near the aisle, scanning the exits automatically out of habit.
Old instincts die harder than I’d like to admit.
When the curtain rises, Sofia steps onto the stage in a pink dress too big for her and a crown that’s slipping to one side. She looks so proud she could light the whole damn room herself.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
I take out my phone, frame her in the screen, and press the shutter.
The picture catches her mid-smile—pure, radiant joy.
No shadows. No fear. Just my little girl being eight.
I stare at it for a long second before opening the messages and hitting send.
Me:
She’s on stage.
A moment later, the photo uploads.
It takes less than a minute before the bubbles appear.
Bella:
Tell her she looks just like the ladybug princess she is.
I can see her in my head saying it—soft voice, that quiet half-smile that still manages to undo me.
I glance back at the photo, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and watch as my daughter bows with all the grace of royalty.
She really does look like a princess.
But all I can think about is the woman who said it.