Page 38

SOPHIE

I slam my laptop shut, the sound too loud in the empty apartment.

The media storm isn’t slowing down. If anything, it’s gaining strength, feeding on itself like a fire no one can put out.

Eva’s article has gone viral.

Everyone has an opinion. A hot take. A theory about who Alessio Marchetti really is and what kind of girl would be stupid enough to fall for him.

Me. I am that stupid girl. And maybe they’re not wrong.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the burn of tears away.

They don’t know the truth. None of them do.

But right now? I'm not even sure I do.

I try to focus. Just… breathe. Drink some water. Do the stupid prenatal stretches the app keeps reminding me about.

But everything aches. My back. My head. My heart.

Even with Alessio gone. Even after being pushed into early leave. Even after the boardroom doors slammed shut behind me…I still can’t outrun the noise. The pressure. The eyes watching.

I grab my phone and text Denver, needing some kind of lifeline, something to tether me back to control, even if it's just a status update I already know won't bring relief.

Any updates?

His reply is almost immediate.

Denver:

Not good. Confidence is shaky. Investors are nervous. I’m doing what I can.

Another message a second later.

Denver:

I need to focus. We’ll talk later.

I stare at the screen like it’s a countdown clock.

All the things I worked so hard for, weeks, months, years, are unraveling right in front of me. Like I’m watching my life crumble in slow motion, and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

The work I put into the merger is circling the drain. My reputation’s hanging by a thread. And my relationship? It feels like it died the second he walked away.

I sink into the couch and press my palm to my belly.

“I’m trying, baby. I swear I’m trying.”

A knock at the door startles me.

For a second, my heart leaps. Then sinks just as fast.

It’s not Alessio. I know that instinctively. His knock would be softer. Hesitant. This one is firm. Measured.

When I open the door, my father stands there, a brown paper bag in his arms and a look on his face I don’t recognize. Not exactly pity. Not pride either. Something gentler. Hesitant.

“I figured you wouldn’t be eating.”

I want to slam the door. I really, really do. But I don’t.

Instead, I step aside, and he walks in like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

I sit on the couch, my father joining me after placing the bag of groceries in the kitchen. He hands me a cup of coffee like a peace offering.

I pat my belly. "I've had my limit of coffee for today."

It’s awkward. Stiff. The silence stretches long enough to make me uncomfortable.

He clears his throat, then looks at me with an awkward sort of caution. “So… you’re pregnant?”

I nod slowly, not quite meeting his eyes.

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “Is it his? Alessio’s?”

I blink at him.

“No, Dad. It’s the other billionaire I’ve been secretly shacking up with.” I sigh and wave a hand.

“Sorry. Hormones.”

He nods again, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information, then clears his throat again. “How’s the baby?”

“Fine.” I don’t owe him more than that.

He nods, gaze down on his hands. “Look, Sophie. I know I made a lot of mistakes. We both know that.”

I stay silent, but my pulse kicks up.

He glances up briefly, then back at his hands. “When your mom passed, I didn’t know how to raise you. Not alone. I buried myself in work. In control. I thought if I kept everything rigid, nothing else would fall apart.”

I blink, surprised by the honesty, but I let him have his say.

“But I saw how hard you worked. Even when the world turned on you, you stood tall. That wasn’t just survival. That was strength. Your mother’s strength.”

He shifts, like it costs him something to keep going. “When the opportunity came to pitch you for the merger, I made it part of the deal. It was non-negotiable.”

I stare at him. “You did that?”

“I couldn’t undo what happened at your last firm. I couldn’t protect you from that. As your father, I should have done more. I should have protected you then. But I could do something now.”

I press a hand to my chest, steadying the swirl of emotions.

“I never said it,” he adds softly, “but I’m proud of you, Soph. You’ve always been the strongest person I know.”

That breaks something small and aching inside me.

It pours out of me before I can stop it. The years of resentment. The disappointment. The nights I cried in silence while he disappeared with women and bottle after bottle of liquor.

“I hated you,” I whisper with tears stinging my eyes. “For what you did to Mom. For the affair. For pretending like you didn’t destroy us.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just nods slowly, his eyes glassy.

He also doesn’t respond right away, his eyes searching for mine, for the right things to say.

“I wasn’t there when I should’ve been. Your mom deserved better. So did you.” He pauses, struggling. “And the truth is, I can’t explain it. Not in any way that would make sense to you. Or make it right.”

My eyes burn, but I keep my expression neutral.

He sighs. “I was grieving. I let the job swallow me. I let the bottle numb me. And when that wasn’t enough, I made choices that broke everything I claimed to care about.”

He shakes his head. “If I could go back, I’d do it all differently. I’d tell your mom how much she meant to me every damn day. I’d be a father you could count on, not just the one who wrote checks.”

I blink hard, the tears fighting their way to the surface.

His voice is low but sincere.

“I let money, power, control make all my decisions for me. I told myself I was doing it for you. But it was all for me. Because being in charge was easier than being present.”

I shake my head slowly. “You hurt us.”

“I know. And I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

He looks at me, really looks at me. “But I’m here now. I know it’s late, but I’m trying. And I’ll keep trying, Sophie. For as long as it takes. Because I broke a lot of things. But I’m trying to fix what I can. Starting with us.”

I wipe at my eyes, the heat of betrayal still sharp but under it, something else. Hope. Maybe.

Another beat of silence falls between us.

“How's Alessio?” he asks, finally breaking the quiet tension.

My jaw tightens. "Back in Italy, leaving me to deal with this alone."

He exhales. “I’ve known that boy since he came to the States. I’ve seen him stumble, screw up, fall hard. But I’ve also seen him fight his way back every single time. For the first time in his life, he’s not just fighting for himself.”

I look away, my throat thick.

My father touches my hand. Fleetingly. “He loves you, Sophie. And he’ll find his way back to you.”

When he finally stands to leave, something in me shifts. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him.

But maybe I can start to try.

When the apartment is quiet again, I sit on the floor beside the couch, my laptop open in my lap.

I don’t even realize what I’m doing at first, just scrolling, almost mindlessly, through old blog posts and charity site archives.

Searching for… something. Anything that isn’t scandal or betrayal or judgment.

And then I find him. Alessio.

He’s in photos from community centers. Shelters. School drives. Candid shots, not polished PR releases, just raw, real moments.

He’s crouched beside a child missing his front teeth both with smiles almost reaching their ears. In another, he’s serving food at a fundraiser, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, smiling like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

My breath catches in my throat, a sharp hitch that feels like both a gasp and a sob, tightening my chest.

I click on a grainy video from the cancer research gala. Alessio dancing, if you can call it that, with two little girls in remission wearing matching sparkly dresses.

He’s all awkward limbs and fake spins, and the girls are giggling like it’s the best night of their lives.

I press a hand to my chest, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

Eva is trying to make it seem as if it was all staged. Calculated.

But I was there.

I saw the way he remembered names. The way he gave his number to a single mother in case her son needed a job one day. The way he held the door open for an elderly woman like she was royalty and brought her tea when no one else noticed she was cold.

That was the real him. The man I’ve loved since our first night together. My high school crush who made me blush every time Denver brought him around.

And I miss him. Not just the man in my bed. Not just the lover with the sharp tongue and the wicked hands. I miss this man. The one who tried. The one who cared.

I swipe to the ultrasound photo on my phone, tracing the tiny shape with my thumb.

“I wish you knew him like I do,” I whisper to the baby.

The fight inside me starts to quiet, not because the pain is gone, but because the love is louder.

I give in. I open my messages and type out a note to Alessio.

It doesn’t go through. I try again. Still nothing. A cold chill creeps up my spine.

Something’s off.