Dominic’s POV
“I know who took Santi.”
I stare at my mother, who sits across from me, completely calm, sipping her coffee as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on my entire world. My jaw tightens, my grip on the desk tightening.
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
But before she can answer, the door bursts open. Selene stands there, eyes wide, chest heaving, like she ran all the way here.
My mother’s lips curve into a smug smile. She lifts her coffee cup and gestures to the chair across from her.
“Ah, there you are,” she says, so casual it makes my blood boil. “Have a seat.”
Selene doesn’t move. Her fists clench at her sides, her entire body radiating fury.
“What are you talking about?” she demands, voice sharp, desperate. “What do you know about Santi?”
I glance at my mother, my own patience wearing thin. She places her cup down, crossing one leg over the other, and smiles.
“Everything, dear.”
Selene steps forward, her breathing ragged. “Then tell us. Right now.”
I lean forward, my voice cold, and controlled. “And don’t play games, Mother. You being here is already suspicious enough.”
Her lips twitch in amusement, but then she drops the act. “I’m married,” she says smoothly, “to the man who has Santi.”
Selene’s entire body locks up. I feel my own pulse pound in my ears, my blood turning to ice.
“What do you mean?” Selene whispers, her voice barely there. “You… married the man who took our son?”
My mother smiles, as if she’s proud of herself.
“Yes, darling.” She leans back, studying her nails. “I met him a few months after I left Bali. Abu Dhabi was… intriguing. And my husband? Well, let’s just say he had a very interesting story.”
Selene snaps.
“Then show me the picture!” Her voice is shaking, her eyes burning. “If you’re telling me you raised my son, then prove it!”
Selene’s pain is too raw, too unbearable, and something inside me—something dark and furious—wants to rip this entire fucking world apart if my mother doesn’t give us the truth now.
But she doesn’t rush. She takes her time, pulling out her phone, clicking a few buttons, before finally turning the screen toward us.
A photo of her. Of her husband. And a boy. A boy with my eyes. A boy who looks like Rafael. Selene’s breath hitches.
Her body stiffens.
She stares at the photo, her face draining of color, her lips parting. And then, in a whisper so broken it shatters something inside me, she says—
“Dad?”