Chapter 38 JENNA
I find the note on the kitchen counter. Cream paper. Heavy. Elegant. His handwriting is unmistakable, decisive, slanted slightly forward, like he never hesitates even when he's saying something gentle.
I read it once. Then again. Then I press it to my chest like an absolute idiot and laugh softly at myself, a small, breathless sound that feels… young. Ridiculous. Lovesick.
God. I haven't done that in years.
It reminds me of the notes he used to leave me. Folded into my bag. Slid under my door. Sometimes just a word. Sometimes a sentence that meant everything. We used to joke that we'd leave each other breadcrumbs across the city. Those notes are still at the house. The thought hits me out of nowhere.
Massimo's people were thorough, I know that.
Clothes. Documents. Amauri's things. Everything obvious.
But there's a box they wouldn't have found.
Hidden under the loose floorboard in the closet.
Pictures of us, printed and faded at the edges.
An old disposable phone I never had the heart to throw away.
Messages saved like talismans. Notes he wrote me that I couldn't risk keeping out in the open. A past I buried, not erased.
"Mummy!" Amauri's voice pulls me back. "There is a pool."
I smile automatically. "There is?"
He grabs my hand and drags me toward the balcony like it's a matter of urgency, pointing wildly the moment we step outside. I smile to myself, assuming he must have discovered the rooftop pool. But no. That's not what got him so fired up.
"There," he says, practically bouncing. "Down there!"
I follow his finger. Below us, tucked between towers, is something that makes me blink twice.
"Oh my God," I laugh. "That's not just a pool, that's a waterpark."
Slides. Blue and white with curves that catch the sun. Splash zones. A lazy river. It looks like something out of a dream.
"Can we go?" he asks, already hopeful. "Please?"
"You bet," I say without hesitation.
His grin could power the city. As he launches into a breathless plan involving races and slides and something he calls the big splash of doom, my mind wanders just a little.
To Massimo. Maybe I could talk him into opening it just for us tonight.
Just the three of us. No crowds. No noise. Amauri would lose his mind.
"I wish we could live here," Amauri sighs happily, leaning against the railing. "Forever."
Something in my chest tightens. I tuck the note back against my heart, smiling into the sunlight.
Maybe. A knock at the door startles me. I open it to find an older woman standing there, posture relaxed, despite the several guards in the foyer.
Her eyes are kind but observant. The kind of presence that doesn't demand trust, but invites it.
"Jenna Whitford?" she asks gently. "I'm Esther Bonnet." She holds up a card. Therapist. "Mr. Manetti sent me," she adds, like she already knows how much that matters.
My chest tightens. Of course he did.
Amauri appears at my side immediately, peeking around my leg with open curiosity. "Are you a doctor?"
Esther smiles at him, warm and unthreatening. She looks like she's in her fifties, with the warmest eyes I've ever seen. "Something like that. I talk with kids. And grown-ups too, sometimes."
Amauri considers this. "Do you fix nightmares?"
"Sometimes," she replies honestly. "And sometimes I just help people understand them."
He nods, satisfied enough. I step aside to let her in, and emotion swells unexpectedly in my throat. Massimo has so much on his shoulders right now—enemies, betrayals, ghosts clawing their way back into the light—and still, he thought of this. Of Amauri.
Of his son.
The contrast hits hard.
Carter would never have done this.
The thought comes sharp and unwelcome, and I shudder despite myself. He wasn't cruel to Amauri. Not overtly. Not in ways that would leave bruises or headlines. He was something worse. Distant. Like Amauri was a guest in his own home. Tolerated. Ignored. Always other.
The memory surfaces unbidden.
"You said you wanted a son," I throw into his face, frustration spilling over after another weekend of excuses. "That's why you agreed to marry me."
He doesn't even look up from his phone. "For image, yes," he replies coolly. "That doesn't mean I have to tolerate the bastard."
The word hits like a slap.
"He's a child," I snap. "Your child."
"He's not mine," Carter states flatly. "And don't confuse obligation with affection."
I stand there, hands shaking, realizing with brutal clarity that this is the line. That if he ever crosses it—if he ever aims that coldness directly at Amauri—I will leave. Consequences be damned. Reputation. Politics. Money.
None of it will matter.
I blink myself back into the present. Esther is kneeling now, eye-level with Amauri, asking him about his favorite games. He answers cautiously at first, then with growing animation. I watch him, how he leans in, how his shoulders slowly relax.
It makes me think of Massimo. Of the way he scooped Amauri up without hesitation.
Of the way he swore, with his whole being, that no one would ever hurt him again.
My eyes burn. I'm starting to understand something I never let myself see before: I'm not the only one to just survive my marriage.
Amauri did too. And now—finally—he doesn't have to anymore.
Esther straightens and looks at me gently. "Would there be somewhere private I could talk with Amauri?" When I instinctively tense, she adds, "You're welcome to stay if you'd like. But it's often easier if I speak with him alone first. Just for a little while."
I glance at Amauri. He's listening, serious, taking this in the way he always does when adults talk around him instead of to him.
"That okay, baby?" I ask.
He nods after a second. "Can I bring Hammie?"
Esther smiles. "Of course you can."
That settles it. I watch them head toward the guest bedroom, Esther unhurried, Amauri clutching the hamster carrier like it's armor.
The door closes softly behind them. I tell myself I trust Massimo.
I wouldn't have let this happen otherwise.
He wouldn't send just anyone. Still, the habit of vigilance is hard to shake.
I grab my phone and type in Esther Bonnet, therapist. The results come back almost immediately.
Highly recommended. Trauma-informed. Decorated.
Discreet. Trusted with children in high-risk situations.
Article after article. Parent testimonials.
Professional accolades. Nothing even remotely questionable. Easing the tightness of my chest.
The door opens behind me.
Massimo.
He steps inside, taking in the room in one sweep, eyes sharp, posture loose but ready. He spots me immediately.
"She's with him," I say before he can ask. "Esther."
He nods once. "Good."
I don't say anything else. I just walk up to him and kiss him. Not careful. Not hesitant. "Thank you."
He stills for half a second, then his hand comes up to my jaw, grounding, familiar.
"For thinking of him," I murmur against his mouth. "For not forgetting."
"I never will," simple words, but I don't think he knows how much they mean to me.
I believe him. Somewhere down the hall, my son is talking to someone who knows how to listen.
"I'll have to leave for a few hours," Massimo fills me in, adjusting his cuff as if it's nothing more than a scheduling detail. "Around one-thirty. Business."
My chest tightens instinctively, but he's already shaking his head. "I'll be back in time for dinner. I promise."
I nod, trusting that promise more than I ever thought I would.
"In the meantime," he continues, "I've arranged for a decorator to stop by. I want you to change the penthouse however you like. Make it yours." His gaze softens just a fraction. "Amauri can pick any of the guest bedrooms for himself."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "Massimo…" I start.
He shrugs lightly. "He needs a space that's his."
The simplicity of it nearly undoes me. Because everything is moving so fast, I can barely get my footing.
One moment I'm surviving—holding things together with duct tape and stubbornness—and the next I'm standing in Massimo's penthouse, watching him plan a future like it's the most natural thing in the world.
My chest tightens. I don't know what to think.
Not really. I know what I feel, and that's the problem.
I want him. Not in the dizzy, reckless way people talk about wanting.
Not in a way that ignores reality. I want him because losing him once nearly destroyed me, and finding him again feels like something I don't get to squander.
We've already lost ten years. Ten years of silence and wrong assumptions and pain that calcified into habit.
I don't want to waste another day pretending I don't know what I want when I finally do.
I want to be with him.
Finally.
There are also the practicalities to consider—to pacify my logical mind.
If we didn't stay here, where would we go?
Back to my house? The thought makes my stomach twist. That place is heavy with ghosts, arguments whispered behind closed doors, cold dinners, and Amauri learning how to make himself small. I don't want to drag my son back into a space where every corner holds a memory I worked so hard to survive.
Take him somewhere else? A temporary place? Another in-between? We've lived in limbo long enough. Moving in here—into Massimo's world, his penthouse, his life—feels inevitable and terrifying all at once. Not because I don't want it, but because it makes everything real.