blanket behind towels.
No more bottle warmer hidden under cleaning cloths.
Life became less desperate.
Not magically easy.
Rent still existed.
Teething existed.
Daycare colds existed with military precision.
But I had room.
Real room.
Then, six months after Victoria returned to London, my attorney called.
Not Alessandro’s.
Mine.
I had hired one with help from a nonprofit legal clinic.
“Elena?”
“Yes?”
“We located David Moreno.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“Philadelphia.”
Alive.
Working.
Not hiding under another name.
Just gone.
“What does he want?”
“He contacted the escrow attorney himself.”
That surprised me.
“Why now?”
“He says he saw an article.”
“What article?”
“About Duca Maritime correcting historical employment claims.”
The company had publicly acknowledged several wrongful suspensions from Marco’s division.
David’s name was not published.
But he knew.
“He wants the paternity test.”
I sat down.
“Does he want custody?”
“No.”
“Visitation?”
“He hasn’t asked.”
“Money?”
“No.”
“Then?”
My
