Miles away, in the backseat of a quiet car heading toward the airport, I felt my phone vibrate.
A single message from Javier.
I didn’t need to open it.
I already knew.
But I did anyway.
“Confirmed. Not his child. The whole family is imploding.”
I stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then slowly…
I locked my phone.
My daughter shifted slightly against me, still asleep.
My son squeezed my hand again.
“Mom… are we really leaving?” he asked softly.
I kissed the top of his head.
“Yes, baby.”
“For good?”
I looked out the window as the city faded behind us.
At the life I was leaving.
At the man who had chosen to erase us.
At the family who had called my children nothing.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
And this time…
I meant it.
Behind us, Diego Rivera was losing everything.
His illusion.
His pride.
His “heir.”
And soon…
His name.
Because the real collapse?
It hadn’t even started yet.
Twice.
“That’s… six months,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
His brain scrambled to keep up.
“No, that’s not possible,” he said quickly. “She told me—”
“She told you it was fourteen weeks,” the doctor finished.
Allison’s breath hitched.
Diego turned to her slowly.
“Is that true?”
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t move.
And that silence…
That silence said everything.
