Page 48 of Fated Love with You

I wanted to keep this baby, I really did. But I need a fresh start, and she deserves better. If you don’t want her, I know you’ll find a family who can do far more than I ever could.

Her paperwork’s in a Ziploc behind her seat. Two cans of formula are included.

Please don’t contact me. I already feel guilty enough. But this is what’s best. She’ll get a future. And maybe I’ll find someone who can actually be introduced to my parents someday—someone capable of love.

Best,

Taylor

P.S. I named her Adeline Ivy. After your mother. I thought that might mean something.

“It was Taylor.” Chester returns with his phone, showing me security footage. Taylor hops out of a truck, paces beneath the umbrella, sets up the stand, and kisses the baby’s forehead before speeding away.

“I’ll call our doctor to check her out,” Chester says. “And notify the safehouse Monday to arrange for pickup.”

“Sounds good.”

Adeline’s eyes blink open. She stares at me, lets out a high, aching cry.

“Actually, I’ll make both calls now.” Chester shakes his head and disappears around the corner.

I don’t think this baby is mine. Not really. But I’m not heartless.

I can care for her until she’s taken elsewhere.

As I lift her from the carrier, the blankets fall. Her white onesie clings to her tiny body.

And through the thin fabric, I see them.

Four stem-shaped birthmarks on her chest.

My heart stalls.

The same marks my mother had. The same ones my grandmother carried. The same ones that haunt every whispered story in our bloodline—women we lost, women we never got to save.

My breath catches as a shudder rolls through me, the weight of generations pressing in all at once. The storm outside quiets in my ears, like the world itself is holding its breath.

I reach out, hand trembling, and brush my fingers over her skin.

Warm. Soft. Familiar.

She stills under my touch. Her tiny chest rises with even breaths, like she already knows who I am. Like she’s been waiting.

She’s really mine…

“What time do you want to meet the director of the safehouse?” Chester’s voice returns.

“Call it off,” I say, sliding a finger into her palm. She grips tight. “I’m keeping her.”

“Come again?”

“I’m keeping her,” I say again, firmer. “She’s mine.”

“Don’t make me get a DNA test.”

“You can do that if you choose.”

Chester steps closer, resting his pinky against one of her birthmarks. His expression softens.