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In the villa's spacious European dining room, pine logs crackled in the fireplace, driving back autumn's chill. The long mahogany table wore rustic linen, laden with fresh-baked focaccia, rosemary lamb chops, shrimp avocado salad, and a plate of tender braised beef for children.
Marcelo sat beside the head chair, gripping a small silver knife, focused. He carefully cut Angus beef into uniform bean-sized cubes, meticulously removing all gristle, then pushed the plate toward me.
While I hesitated, he said nothing, just cut another portion for Leon.
"Careful, it's hot, Leon." His tone was gentle.
"When you hold the fork, tuck your pinky in, like holding a paintbrush." Isabella sat beside Leon, chewing salad while seriously correcting his grip. "You've got Caldwell blood and... well, refined taste flowing through you. Can't eat steak like some Brooklyn brute grabbing with his hands."
"Got it, Isa!" Leon mimicked her perfectly, spearing a meat cube and stuffing it in his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. "Delizioso!"
Marcelo watched the child eat, eyes overflowing with unguarded tenderness and satisfaction, reaching for a napkin to wipe sauce from Leon's mouth.
I watched it all.
Orange firelight danced across every face. Flames gilded Marcelo's silver hair. Isabella propped her chin, serving vegetables. Leon swung his legs, giggling.
I couldn't remain unmoved.
For one disorienting moment, something warm yet crushingly heavy slammed into my heart.
This looked too much like a real family.
The fantasy I'd dreamed about countless times four years ago in that cold Hoboken rental, shattered by that fifty-thousand-dollar check. Now that fantasy materialized—absurd yet real—before my eyes. But after brief surrender, every nerve in my body screamed bone-deep warning.
As dinner wound down, the fire dimmed.
The day's play had exhausted the three-year-old completely. Leon's head drooped toward the table, his little fork clattering onto the tablecloth as he collapsed sideways.
Marcelo reacted instantly, long arm catching the child's falling body.
He gathered Leon carefully into his arms, adjusting gently so the small head rested comfortably against his broad chest. Leon whimpered in his sleep, small hand instinctively clutching the deep blue sweater's collar, face buried in the man's neck.
Marcelo froze in his chair, breathing deliberately slow. One large, rough hand covered the child's thin back, gray-green eyes holding unguarded, scalding fatherly love.
"The master bedroom has fresh cotton bedding," Marcelo murmured, voice raspy, eyes cautiously questioning. "The crib's in the adjoining room. I personally checked all the safety corners. Tonight... sleep here comfortably. I'll take the back guesthouse."
Looking at our exhausted child's sleeping face, then at the black ocean outside, I didn't insist on leaving. I simply nodded. "Fine."
Three days at the Long Island estate passed like a stolen dream.
Friday and Saturday, I barely left the top-floor sunroom, adjusting my semi-final plus-size silk pleated garment on the dress form. Whenever I looked up, rubbing my sore neck, I'd see through the windows—
Marcelo kept his promise, rarely entering the main house. He stayed near the lawn or greenhouse, clumsily assembling complex wooden train tracks, or letting Leon smear crooked dinosaur prints across his expensive leather jacket with paint.
Sunday evening arrived as promised.
After packing all my pattern boxes and sketches, the black Lincoln Navigator idled before the main entrance.
Leon had run wild for three straight days. The moment he was lifted into the car, he yawned. Marcelo bent down, expertly fastening the five-point harness, fingertips barely grazing the child's flushed cheek, eyes churning with unbearable longing.
"Let's go." I settled into the back seat's other side, buckling up, voice calm.
Marcelo straightened, pausing at the door before finally sliding into the left rear seat, letting Rocco start the engine.
Wheels crunched over gravel. The tall iron gates closed in the rearview mirror. The black Navigator merged onto the Manhattan highway. Ocean wind faded. Only amber streetlights streaked past.
No overhead light. The dashboard glowed faint blue. In the wide leather back seat, sleeping Leon lay in the center, covered with that soft cashmere blanket, breathing evenly.
