"I'm sorry, Miss, do you need—" the maid began softly.
"Just go," I rasped, my voice barely holding together.
She hesitated, then left.
Slowly, painfully, I dragged myself back up, crawling toward the mirror, gripping its edge as if it were the only thing keeping me from collapsing completely.
This wasn't me.
This couldn't be my life.
And that was the moment I made the call.
I didn't pack anything.
Didn't take a single possession.
Just my phone.
And my wallet.
On the wall, Catarina's photograph stared back at me. Perfect. Beautiful. Untouchable. Framed in dark wood beside a votive candle that someone in the household kept lit, the way the Montecarlo family honored their dead.
I reached out, my fingers brushing lightly against the frame, my chest tightening painfully.
They didn't know.
They didn't know she stole Enzo from me.
They didn't know she begged me, begged me, to keep the truth hidden.
That I was their real mother.
That I gave everything up for them.
Everything.
My left hand found my wrist and pressed hard against the bare skin where my mother's bracelet once sat, fingers digging in until the ache bloomed through bone.