29.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
Catarina’s arrest does not close the past.
It opens more doors.
Statements emerge.
Former employees.
Documents.
A laboratory technician admits she was ordered to replace the genetic material used in the paternity test.
The photographer confirms he had been following Henrique and me for months.
An accountant produces records of diverted funds.
A Swiss repair shop finds a work order indicating the brake system on Henrique’s car had been tampered with.
It is not definitive proof of murder.
It is enough to keep Catarina in custody while the investigation continues.
Leonardo does not celebrate.
He spends hours in silence.
Henrique is present in every conversation.
“You blame yourself,” I say one night.
We are sitting on the porch at my house.
Manuela is asleep.
Leonardo now stays in the guest room three nights a week.
We never officially decided that.
It simply happened.
“I should have noticed.”
“He hid it.”
“Because he was afraid of me.”
“Because he was afraid of losing you.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No.”
Leonardo looks toward the garden.
“If I had been different, he would have told me.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m not. I just don’t want you turning his death into another debt you have to repay.”
“My therapist said something similar.”
“I like her.”
“Of course you do.”
“Did she also tell you that you use anger to avoid grief?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I told her no.”
“You lied.”
“She noticed.”
“I like her even more now.”
Leonardo takes my hand.
His wedding band rests against my fingers.
“Catarina may have killed my brother.”
“She may have.”
“And I nearly destroyed you because of her.”
“Nearly?”
“I destroyed part of you.”
The correction matters.
“Yes.”
“How do you live with that?”
“I don’t live inside what you did. I live inside what I built afterward.”
“And me?”
“You’re trying to come in.”
“Are you letting me?”
I look at our house.
álvaro’s workshop out back.
Manuela’s drawings on the refrigerator.
The clinic.
The town.
My life.
“A little.”
“It can increase?”
“Maybe.”
He smiles.
I lean closer.
Kiss him.
Over the following weeks, our marriage changes without either of us sitting down to define it.
Leonardo stays in the guest room.
But some nights, he comes into mine to talk.
We sit on the bed.
Talk about Manuela.
Henrique.
Fear.
Small things.
Sometimes we kiss.
We stop before desire turns into something neither of us is ready to face.
Until the night we don’t.
It starts after a storm.
The power goes out.
Manuela wakes frightened.
We both run to her room.
Stay with her until she falls asleep again.
When we leave, the house is still dark.
Only candles light the hall.
Leonardo touches my face.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“That was the eighth time today.”
“She wasn’t having a heart issue. She was afraid of thunder.”
“Still counts.”
“It does not.”
“Unclear rules.”
I smile.
He kisses me.
The kiss changes quickly.
Maybe because of the dark.
Maybe because of the leftover fear.
Maybe because of years spent apart.
My back meets the wall.
Leonardo stops.
“Tell me to keep going.”
The man I knew before would not have asked.
Or maybe he would have asked once, already certain of my answer.
Now there is real fear in his eyes.
“Keep going.”
His hands move to my waist.
I press closer.
Desire is so familiar it hurts.
“Olívia.”
My name in his voice breaks the last of my control.
I pull him toward my room.
Close the door.
There is no contract there.
No clauses.
Only us.
Leonardo touches me as though he has to learn me again.
Asks.
Waits.
Watches every reaction.
When he slips my nightgown away, his eyes move over my body.
“It’s changed,” I say.
Pregnancy left marks.
Time did too.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Don’t say that just because—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
He touches a small scar near my hip.
“What happened?”
“C-section.”
His hand stops.
Guilt appears.
I take his fingers.
“Not tonight.”
“I should have—”
“Not tonight.”
Leonardo nods.
He kisses the scar.
Then my stomach.
I cry.
Not from sadness.
From everything.
When we make love, it is not the same as before.
It is better.
Harder.
More honest.
Afterward, we lie side by side.
Leonardo runs his fingers through my hair.
“Do you regret it?”
“Not yet.”
“You can regret it in the morning.”
“Don’t ruin this.”
He goes quiet.
“Say something,” I tell him.
“I’m trying not to tell you I love you.”
“You already did.”
“I’m trying not to use it as pressure.”
I turn toward him.
“You can say it.”
“I love you.”
I close my eyes.
“I love you too.”
“Really?”
“Do not ask stupid questions after that.”
Leonardo laughs.
The sound vibrates under my cheek.
“Our contract—”
“Still exists.”
“Right.”
“But sex can exist too.”
“How many times a week?”
I slap his chest.
“Do not turn it into a clause.”
“I need to plan.”
“You’re going to learn not to.”
“Slowly.”
“It can increase.”
I kiss him again.
When I wake, the room is bright.
Leonardo is still beside me.
For a few seconds, there is peace.
Then the door opens.
Manuela appears.
Looks at us.
At the clothes on the floor.
At her father in her mother’s bed.
“Did you make a baby?”
I sit up too fast.
“What?”
“Lara said babies start when grown-ups sleep together.”
Leonardo covers his face.
“No baby started.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely.”
“Then why is he here?”
“He slept here.”
“I can see that.”
“Manuela.”
She smiles.
“You like each other.”
“Go brush your teeth.”
“Are there pancakes?”
“Your father is making them.”
Leonardo uncovers his face.
“I am?”
“Consequences of your choices.”
Manuela leaves.
He looks at me.
“She’s going to tell Marta.”
“Definitely.”
“And álvaro.”
“Also definitely.”
“Should I run?”
“The ruthless billionaire is afraid of a grandmother?”
“Terrified.”
We laugh.
Later, in the kitchen, while Leonardo struggles with pancakes and Manuela gets flour everywhere, I watch my family.
Not the contract family.
The real one.
Still imperfect.
Still fragile.
But real.