Page 67 of Please, Forgive Me

“You can go back to work, Maria Gabriela,” he said finally, his voice cold, devoid of emotion.

Without a word, I turned and left the office, my chest tight with anger and frustration.

Diego Bittencourt was determined to make the next six months a living hell.

And somehow, I was going to have to survive it.

I came home exhausted, but Max’s boundless energy snapped me out of my daze within seconds. He greeted me at the door, tail wagging, those bright brown eyes full of life and warmth.

It was almost as if he knew my day had been a complete disaster—and he was there, ready to fix it in his own way.

“Hey, Max!” I smiled, crouching down to scratch his head. “I think you’re the only good thing that’s happened to me these past few days, you know that?”

He barked happily and started spinning in circles, making me laugh for the first time that day. I let myself sink into that simple joy, so different from everything I felt at work.

Max bounced around me, determined to play, like he wanted to chase away the dark thoughts clouding my mind—and I was grateful for it.

I walked to the kitchen, and, as always, he followed close behind, his excited paws clicking against the floor of the small apartment. I opened the cabinet, grabbed his food, and poured it into his bowl. He waited patiently—or at least tried to—his eyes practically begging me to hurry.

“Hungry, huh, buddy?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

The second I set the bowl down, he dove in. While he ate, I leaned against the counter, finally letting the fatigue sink in.

“Max…” I murmured, watching him finish his food. “You’re gonna love the baby, you know that? You two are going to be inseparable.”

That night, it was just me, Max, and this quiet little feeling that somehow, things were going to be okay.

I picked up the ball from the corner of the living room and tossed it to him. He ran after it with his usual enthusiasm, and for a moment, I managed to forget everything that had been weighing me down.

I knew I needed moments like this—moments of peace, of normalcy—before facing the storm that was Diego.

After a few rounds of fetch, Max finally started to tire out. He flopped down, panting, clearly ready to call it a night.

I collapsed onto the couch, and he immediately jumped up, resting his head on my lap, silently demanding affection. My fingers moved through his fur almost automatically as my thoughts drifted back—to work, to Diego, to the baby.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered softly, more to myself than to him. “How am I supposed to handle all of this alone?”

He just looked up at me with those honest eyes, as if to say I could do it—that everything would turn out fine.

I got up, ready to call it a night. My body was begging for rest. I guided him to his bed next to mine, and he curled up without a fight, clearly content.

“Goodnight, boy,” I whispered, turning off the light and crawling into bed.

DIEGO BITTENCOURT

“What is it? How long are you planning to just stand there staring at me, Alexandre?” I asked, impatient, tossing the papers onto the desk.

For a few seconds, my brother didn’t say a word—he just looked at me in that way only he could, a mix of patience and judgment.

He sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall of my office. It was past 7 p.m., and the heavy silence in the room clashed with the tension of the conversation about to unfold.

“You know what you did today wasn’t right.” He finally broke the silence, his tone calm but firm. “Talking to Maria Gabriela like that… that’s not how a man acts.”

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the window. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture—especially not about her.

“You don’t understand the situation,” I muttered without looking at him. “She brought this on herself when she lied to me.”

Alexandre didn’t move, but his posture stayed tense. I, on the other hand, could feel the fire rising in my chest again every time the memory of what Maria Gabriela had said came back to me.