Selene’s POV
“I buried one child. I won’t let him take the others.”
The thought reverberates through my skull as I perch on the bed's edge, clutching the faded blanket with such force that my knuckles bleach under the pressure. The past six years have been nothing but a battle, one I had no choice but to fight.
Rafael and Rosalie are my world. Every decision, every sacrifice, every sleepless night—I did it for them. I raised them alone, made sure they never lacked love, safety, or security.
And now, Dominic is threatening that.
His presence at work, his relentless pursuit of answers, the way his eyes linger on Rafael a second too long—it’s all too much.
What does he know? How much longer until he pieces it all together?
I stand abruptly, my pulse racing. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let him take them.
If Dominic really did what I think he did that night, if he really was the man who left me broken and bleeding in a hotel room, then I will never let him near my children.
They deserve better than a man like him.
They deserve better than a monster.
The house is quiet. Rafael and Rosalie are fast asleep in their beds, their soft breaths the only sound in the dimly lit apartment. I slip into Rafael’s room first, my heart twisting as I watch him sleep. His tiny fists are clenched tightly against the pillow, his dark curls disheveled and falling across his forehead in a charming disarray.
So much like Dominic.
I exhale sharply, forcing down the lump in my throat. I brush his hair back gently, my fingers lingering for a moment before I pull away. I have to protect him.
Rosalie stirs in the next room as I peek in, but she doesn’t wake. Her small frame is curled under her favorite blanket, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric.
I whisper a silent promise to them both. No one will take you from me.
Not even your father.
***
That night, after putting the twins to bed, I pulled out an old shoebox from the top of my closet.
It’s full of memories I tried to bury.
Old hospital bills, ultrasound photos, paperwork from Rafael and Rosalie’s premature birth. And then…I stopped.
My hands tremble as I pull out a folded hospital bill, the edges yellowed with age.
Santi Alvaroz – Burial Services
My breath catches. My lungs squeeze tight. I stare at the paper, my vision blurring.
Santi.
The baby I never got to hold. The child I lost before I ever got the chance to love him. My fingers clench the paper, my heart hammering. I’ve avoided this for years. Looking at this bill, saying his name aloud—it makes it real. It makes his death real.
But then—something catches my eye.
A small section at the bottom of the page. A detail so small I almost miss it.
[No death certificate attached.]
My pulse stops.
I blink, my mind struggling to process what I’m seeing.
That’s not right.
There should be a certificate. Every deceased infant has one. It’s required by law.
My hands tremble as I flip the paper over, desperately searching for answers, but there’s nothing. Just a series of hospital charges that make no sense, each one more confusing than the last. A cold weight presses down on my chest, suffocating me, and threatening to crush the breath from my lungs.
Why wasn’t there a death certificate?
The thought haunts me, unanswered, as the silence becomes unbearable.
And then, Rafael bursts through the door, panic in his eyes.
"Mom… Rosie’s doing it again…"
I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears.
I frowned, trying to hold it together. “She’s jerking non-stop.”
Panic floods me, hot and sharp, and I rush to their room. When I step inside, the sight of Rosie seizing sends a chill through my bones—her body convulsing violently, as if she’s being torn apart from the inside.