I straighten, pulling my hand from hers gently. “You nearly lost the baby. I’m not taking chances. Here, I can make sure you’re watched. Protected.”
“By you?”
I meet her gaze. “By my people.”
She exhales, a small, humorless sound. “You say that like it’s supposed to comfort me.”
“It should,” I reply. “Nothing will happen to you here.”
Her eyes glisten, just slightly. “That’s not what I asked.”
I don’t answer, because the truth is too sharp, too tangled to speak aloud. Because wanting has nothing to do with duty. And love—real love—has already ruined me once.
She nods slowly, as if she understands anyway.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll stay.”
I turn toward the door, the weight of the choice settling heavy in my chest.
Behind me, her voice follows.
“Lorenzo?”
I pause.
“I don’t need you to love me,” she says. “I just need you not to disappear.”
I don’t promise her anything.
But I stay a moment longer than I should, standing there inthe half-light, wondering when exactly my life became a series of choices where no one truly wins.
I’d like to say I stop looking for Elizabeth, but that would be a lie.
I still check my phone the moment I wake up. Still pause when an unfamiliar number flashes across the screen. Still feel that sharp, stupid spark of hope every time Cesaro says, “We followed another lead.” Every day ends the same way. With nothing.
While the answers don’t come, Fran and I settle into a version of life that looks convincing enough from the outside. We share space. We share meals. We share silences that stretch longer than either of us acknowledges. She’s careful with herself now, cautious in a way that reminds me constantly of what almost happened.
Two weeks pass.
Then her mother arrives with garment bags, folders, and the kind of energy that bulldozes everything in its path. Wedding planning mode. Decisions that can’t wait. Dates that must be locked in.
I sit beside Fran at the table while fabric swatches are spread out like a dealer’s hand. I nod when asked. I offer opinions when prompted. I smile when I’m supposed to.
Inside, I’m hollow.
Another two weeks crawl by.
And then it hits me. Not all at once, but quietly, like a truth I’ve been circling without wanting to see it.
I’m losing hope.
Elizabeth hasn’t just disappeared. She vanished. There’s no digital trail. No financial activity. No witnesses who remember her clearly enough to matter. Someone didn’t just help her leave. They erased her. And for the first time, I have to face the possibility that I may never find her.
But Fran?
Fran is here. She’s real and breathing and carrying my child. She looks at me with guarded eyes, waiting to see if I’ll finally choose her without hesitation. She deserves stability. She deserves certainty. She deserves a husband who isn’t halfway out the door chasing a ghost.
So when her mother clears her throat and says, “April would be ideal,” I don’t argue.
