"I have a baby, no husband, and an engagement to the son of my unborn child’s father. My guilt is not the issue right now." She presses her back against the wall, tilts her head up like she's trying to keep herself from crying through sheer vertical force. "You asked for five minutes. You got them. So tell me: what were you going to say that was going to make any of this different?"
I open my mouth.
And I have nothing. No plan, no fix, no brilliant solution. Just the fact of what I did and the woman standing in front of me and the child between us and all the ways I cannot undo any of it.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't have an answer. I just — I needed to say it to your face. That I'm sorry. That I knew something felt wrong and I ignored it, and I should have asked Luca his daughter's name, should have asked to meet her before I agreed to anything. I should have—" I stop. "I should have been more careful with someone's life."
The silence between us changes. Still tense, still wrecked — but something in it shifts slightly.
"You can't fix this," she says, and it's not an accusation anymore. Just a fact. Tired.
"Not tonight," I say. "But I'm not—" I stop, because I nearly sayleaving you in thisand I don't have the right to say it. Don't have the right to any of the things I want to say. "I'm not done trying to find a way."
She looks at me for a long moment. Something moves across her face that I can't name.
"The baby is yours," she says quietly. "I want you to know that I know that. Whatever happens — whoever it belongs to on paper — I know."
"I know too."
"Okay." She closes her eyes briefly. "Okay."
She takes a shaky breath. "This is happening. I'm marrying Leo in three months. Your baby is going to be his. And we both just have to—to live with it."
"I can't." The admission rips out of me. "I can't watch him touch you. Can't watch you pretend. Can't—"
"This is fucked up," she whispers.
"Yes."
"I can't believe this is happening."
We're inches apart now. The air between us crackles with everything we can't say, can't do.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask. "That you were Luca's daughter?"
"Why didn't you tell me you were my father's best friend?" She fires back.
"We didn't talk about our personal lives."
"Exactly." Her eyes search mine. "We had six days. Six days of first names and pretending the real world didn't exist. And now—"
Footsteps echo down the hallway.
We both jump apart.
Aurora's eyes go wide. "You need to go—"
"Aurora—"
"Now."
She's already moving, slipping into her room. The door closes just as Leo rounds the corner.
"Dad?" He stops. "What are you doing up here?"
"Looking for the bathroom. Got turned around."
He buys it. "It's down the other hall. Come on."