Seven Months.

Seven months since you left that cold mansion in the dead of night without looking back.

Now, you live in a small coastal town where no one knows the name Domingo, where no one remembers who you once were—an unwanted wife, forced upon a man who never chose you.

The house is quiet, warm with the scent of milk and faint perfume. A small lamp casts a soft glow, and the air carries the distant whispers of the sea. In the corner, a wooden crib sits beneath a faded blue blanket.

Your son—
Three months old.
Breathing softly, as if his heart still doesn’t know how cruel life can be.

You stand by the window, holding a cup of warm tea, your mind adrift…

Today, an old friend called and told you the truth:
Camilla, your stepsister, was never pregnant.
It was all a lie.
A lie your husband believed…
A lie he chose over you—over the child that should have meant everything to him.

Your mind drags you back…
To that day you returned from the clinic, clutching the ultrasound results.
You were four months along, your heart trembling with joy.
A boy.

You carried those papers like treasure.
Ran to him, hoping to see warmth in his eyes…
Hoping, just once, he would soften—that he would hold this moment between you the way you had always dreamed.

But your joy shattered.

When you told him about the test, he didn’t let you finish.
Cut you off coldly.

"Good. I hope it’s a girl."

You stared at him, your heart collapsing, but he continued without flinching.

"Camilla is carrying my child… If she gives me a son, he will be my heir. The child you’re carrying… means nothing to me."

You remember it all now, as if it’s happening again.
You exhale slowly, finishing the last sip of your tea.

Then—
A knock at the door.

You glance at the clock.
3 AM.

You assume it’s Maria, your elderly neighbor.
Quietly, you tuck the blanket around your son, then walk to the door.

Open it slowly—

And freeze.

Your hand lingers on the knob, numb.

It’s him.
Dario Domingo.

Standing there, drenched from the rain, his heavy coat clinging to his frame, hair fallen over his forehead. His face has lost its usual arrogance. His eyes, though exhausted, search you—as if looking for something he lost but never admitted was his.

Your pulse races, your throat dry. Hands trembling against the cold metal, you finally whisper.

"Dario?"

He steps inside without permission.
Shrugs off his coat, lets it drop carelessly to the floor.
Sinks onto the couch as if this place still belongs to him—as if you never ran.

Then he speaks, his gaze fixed on the bedroom door.

"I tore the world apart looking for you… and here you were. All this time."
A short, bitter laugh escapes him—more like a sigh, weighted with regret than mockery.

You stand rigid, your voice sharp despite your shaking hands and pounding heart.

"What are you doing here?"

He drags a hand over his rain-slicked face, then lifts his eyes to yours. His voice is rough, broken.

"Don’t I have the right… to see my family?"

The silence between you is suffocating, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Then, after a moment, he moves.
Rises slowly.
Steps toward you.
His strides deliberate, quiet, but heavy—as if carrying the weight of seven months without you.

Stops right in front of you.

Reaches out.
Graces your chin with his fingers, tilting your face up to his. His gaze traces over you like he’s studying the wreckage he left behind.

His thumb brushes your lower lip—slow, deliberate—
Then he whispers, voice low and raw, more desperate than demanding.

"I came to take back what’s mine… My wife. My son."

As his words linger, you feel his breath warm against your skin—the same breath that once spoke such cruelty.

From the bedroom, your son stirs, as if life itself has placed its answer between you.