I spent the entire night awake, weighing options.
Option A: Tell Rafael. Give him parental rights. Spend the next eighteen years negotiating custody, visitation, decisions. Allow him to use our son as a way to control me. Allow Sofia to become my baby's stepmother.
My stomach churned just thinking about it.
Option B: Hide it from Rafael. Let Enzo assume paternity. Live a massive lie. Protect my son from the man who betrayed me. Maintain total control.
It was deception. It was wrong on so many levels.
But it was also survival.
At 6 a.m., I made my decision.
I found Enzo in his office. He was in his pajamas—the first time I'd seen him less than perfectly dressed—working on his laptop, coffee beside him.
"Didn't sleep?" I asked from the doorway.
He looked up, surprised. "—You don't either, it seems." He gestured to the armchair opposite the table. "Come in. Want some coffee? Or…" he hesitated, "probably not, you're feeling nauseous."
