Chapter 7 - The Night Our Babies Were Born
Six months later, the city had changed.
Nicholas was awaiting trial.
The Moretti company had been restructured.
Dante had given up several businesses he once considered untouchable.
He had also started a charitable foundation in Olivia's name.
Most importantly, he had changed.
He came home.
He listened.
He stopped using silence as punishment.
He stopped trying to solve everything without me.
And he went to every doctor's appointment.
One afternoon, the doctor looked at the ultrasound.
“Everything looks great.”
Dante smiled.
“They're healthy?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Both.”
He took my hand.
“Thank God.”
I looked at him.
“Do you still want to know the names?”
“We agreed to wait.”
“I changed my mind.”
He laughed.
“You're impossible.”
“You married me.”
“You remind me of that daily.”
I smiled.
We named the boy Vincent.
The girl Olivia.
Dante cried when he heard the name.
Our anniversary came again.
This time, he remembered.
At 8:00 p.m., our kitchen was filled with flowers.
Dinner was homemade.
No office.
No phones.
No assistants.
Just us.
Dante lifted his glass.
“To five years.”
I smiled.
“Technically six.”
“To six years,” he corrected.
Then he became serious.
“And to every year after this one.”
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
That night, my water broke.
Dante froze.
“What do I do?”
“Drive.”
He grabbed the hospital bag.
Then came back.
“Where's the bag?”
“Dante!”
“I forgot where I put it.”
“The front closet.”
He ran.
I laughed despite the pain.
At the hospital, everything happened quickly.
Vincent was born first.
Then, fourteen minutes later, Olivia.
Two tiny cries.
Two tiny lives.
Dante stood beside me crying openly.
“They're perfect.”
I looked at him.
“They are.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For giving me the chance to become someone better.”
I closed my eyes.
Maybe love wasn't about finding someone who never failed you.
Maybe it was about deciding which failures could be survived.
Which wounds could heal.
Which truths could be faced together.
And whether the person who broke your heart had the courage to rebuild what they destroyed.
We left the hospital four days later.
For the first time, the Moretti penthouse didn't feel like a prison.
It felt like a home.
Then, on our first night back, I found an envelope beneath the nursery door.
No return address.
My blood ran cold.
Inside was a photograph.
Olivia Moretti, alive.
Standing beside my mother.
The date on the photograph was impossible.
It had been taken two years after the official date of Olivia's death.
May you like
On the back was a handwritten sentence.
You never found the body.
