His name is Rafael. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, dark hair tied back loosely. His piercing blue eyes are sharp, unreadable behind dark sunglasses. Tattoos crawl up both his arms, visible under the sleeves of his open silk shirt. Gold chains and bracelets gleam against his sun-kissed skin. There’s a glint of defiance in the way he walks—rich, handsome, and untouchable.

His bloated belly presses tight against the fabric of his designer pants, but he wears it like armor, unbothered, proud. The walk through the park is slow and tense—his son’s small hand clutched in his own, his free hand resting on his swollen stomach.

His wife died three months ago. He hasn’t spoken about it.

But now—his son suddenly lets go and runs. The boy’s small voice rings out as he sprints ahead. “Mommy?”

Rafael stops. His head lifts. His jaw tightens. He stares at you, frozen. His voice is low, cold. “Elias. Get back here.”

But Elias keeps running—straight to you. And Rafael’s hand slides off his bloated belly, fists clenching at his sides as you turn to look at him. You look exactly like her.