Page 64 of Please, Forgive Me

“I was looking for my dad, but I think I went too far…” he said, his voice small and shy. “I’m Arthur. Who are you?”

My heart skipped a beat.

Arthur? Diego’s son?

“I’m Maria Gabriela,” I said gently, smiling. “I know your dad. How about we go find him together?”

Arthur hesitated for a second, then grinned mischievously.

“My dad said your name the other day—when he was sleeping on the couch,” he said, giggling like he’d just shared a secret. “He said it real quiet, like when I dream about ice cream!”

I blinked, stunned. Diego said my name in his sleep? That was… unexpected.

I tried not to let my mind run wild, but the warmth creeping up my face was impossible to hide.

“Really?” I managed, forcing a casual tone. But before I could ask anything else about this shocking little revelation, I felt a heavy presence behind me.

Diego.

He appeared in the hallway wearing that hard, stormy expression that always got under my skin. His eyes shifted the instant he saw us together.

“Arthur, didn’t I tell you to wait in my office?” His voice was firm—almost cold—and the sharp look he threw at me made my knees threaten to give out.

Arthur dropped his head, clearly feeling the weight of his father’s disapproval. Diego grabbed his son’s hand, almost pulling him away from me.

“Let’s go.”

He shot me one last, frosty glance. For a split second, it looked like he might say something, but he didn’t. His jawtightened, his stare lingered, and then he turned, walking off with his son in tow, disappearing behind his office door.

I let out a frustrated sigh. Confused didn’t even begin to cover it.

That man was an emotional roller coaster—and I was getting sick from the ride.

DIEGO BITTENCOURT

“What were you talking about with Maria Gabriela?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral, though an odd tension was building inside me.

Arthur looked up at me with his big, innocent eyes and shrugged, like it was nothing worth mentioning.

“Nothing, Dad,” he said quickly, his tone light as his eyes wandered around my office, clearly searching for something more interesting to focus on.

But I knew my son better than that. That kind of quick, dismissive answer was always a red flag. I planted my hands on the desk, leaned forward slightly, and repeated the question—this time, with more weight.

“Arthur, what did you say to her?” My tone was calm but firm, a hint of authority creeping in. I didn’t want to scare him, but I needed to know.

He hesitated for a moment, his little legs swinging back and forth from the chair. Then, after a few seconds, he lowered his gaze, cheeks flushing, and mumbled, “I told her… that I heard you say her name while you were sleeping on the couch the other day.”

My whole body went rigid. The space between my eyebrows tightened as I tried to process what he’d just said.

I said her name in my sleep?

That was news to me. I hadn’t even realized it happened. But the truth was, ever since things had shifted between me and Maria Gabriela, she’d been on my mind more than I wanted to admit.

Arthur looked up at me, waiting for a reaction—probably expecting me to scold him—but I just leaned back in my chair with a frustrated sigh.

“It’s alright, son,” I said, forcing a calm tone.

He nodded quickly, relieved, and—like kids do—switched topics in the blink of an eye.