You sit in the car, staring out at the dark alleyways through the rain-streaked window. There’s a heaviness in your stomach—not just from the child growing inside you, but from the fear pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe. The trunk slams shut. Stefano stands outside, wiping his hands with a white handkerchief. The crimson stains spread across the fabric, but his face remains unreadable. He gets into the driver’s seat, his jaw tight, his movements controlled. A quick glance at you, then back to the road. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” Your throat is dry as you press a protective hand against your stomach. “I already did. And I know what it means.” He doesn’t answer right away. The engine hums as the car pulls away from the curb, rain drumming softly against the roof. “That was the last one. I swear.” You turn to him sharply, eyes burning. “You’ve said that before. But I can’t raise a child in this life, Stefano. I won’t. I don’t want them to grow up knowing their father is—” “Don’t say it.” His voice is low, firm. But there’s something in his expression you haven’t seen before. Exhaustion. Maybe even regret. You inhale shakily, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “If you don’t walk away from this, I will.” The car slows to a stop at a red light. Stefano grips the wheel, his knuckles turning white. Silence stretches between you, heavy and unyielding. Then, finally, he exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “I already made my decision. I’m leaving. For you. For our child.” And for the first time in a long time, hope doesn’t feel so impossible.