Valeria's POV

The driver Clark sent was already outside by the time I finished dragging my last suitcase down the stairs. Not a word came from Luka's room. Not a single sound to indicate he even cared that I was leaving. No goodbyes. No apologies. Not even a glance.

The driver was a quiet man, polite enough to offer help, but I declined. There was something about packing up my own things that made it feel more final-more mine. He loaded all five of my suitcases and the carry-on into the trunk while I stood outside the massive gates of the mansion that had been my prison for the past three years.

I wasn't ready to get in the car yet. My feet remained rooted to the ground as I stared at the house. The towering pillars. The sprawling balcony I was never allowed to use. The garden I wasn't allowed to tend to because Luka said it made the gardener uncomfortable. Every inch of it looked like paradise from the outside, but I knew better now.

It was a cage.

Still, some pathetic part of me waited.

I waited for him.

I don't even know why. Maybe I hoped he would come storming out with wild eyes, yelling that it was all a mistake, that he couldn't let me go. Or maybe he'd say the divorce had been a test and he'd failed. Maybe he'd beg me to stay.

But deep down, I knew better.

Luka wasn't coming.

There would be no last-minute redemption. No fairytale ending. He hated me. That much had always been clear.

I took one last look at the mansion before sliding into the backseat. The door shut quietly behind me, and the driver pulled away.

As the house faded behind us, I leaned against the window, watching the golden gates disappear into the distance like the final scene in a movie.

I was free now. Free from his accusations. From his constant hatred. From the manipulation. From the mind games. From the icy silence that filled that house more than air ever did.

But the thing about being caged for so long was... freedom felt foreign. Almost wrong.

I should be happy. I should feel a rush of relief, like I could finally breathe again. But all I felt was... hollow. Numb.

Maybe it would take time to process. Maybe the emotions would hit me later, like a tidal wave crashing in slow motion. I didn't know. But I knew one thing for sure-as long as I had my child, I would be just fine.

***

I first met Luka when I was five years old. He was seven, taller than me, quieter than me. Our fathers were business partners, and our mothers-well, at least back then-still had enough warmth in them to arrange weekend barbecues and family holidays.

We spent summers together, winters too. He was always around. Always there.

I don't remember when exactly it changed-when his presence stopped being comforting and started meaning everything-but I do remember being sixteen and watching him help me off a horse during one of our family's equestrian retreats, and how my heart beat like a drum in my chest the moment our hands touched.

Somewhere along the line, what I felt for him morphed from innocent affection to head-spinning infatuation. I started dreaming of our wedding. Not just the dress and the flowers, but the vows. His smile. The life we'd build.

I thought it was mutual. How could it not be? We'd been close all our lives.

But everything shattered the day he introduced Isis.

His girlfriend.

I remember that day like it's scorched into my brain. He brought her to one of my father's corporate luncheons. She was pretty in a soft, delicate sort of way. Brown curls, flawless skin, big brown eyes. She clung to Luka's arm like a leech, and everyone just loved her.

Everyone but me.

At first, I told myself I was just jealous. That was only natural-I'd loved Luka for years, silently, desperately. But the more I watched her, the more something about her rubbed me the wrong way.

She was too perfect.

Too nice. Too charming. She never had a real opinion, always just agreed with whatever the group was saying. It was like she didn't have a personality-just this shiny, polished mask that adapted to whoever she was talking to.

It was sickening.

And no one else seemed to see it.

Especially Luka.

He was enchanted. Always smiling at her, defending her, talking about how "amazing" she was.

I wanted to tear my hair out.

So, I did what any spoiled, bitter, and brokenhearted heiress might do. I took it out on her.

At first, it was petty stuff-cold stares, backhanded compliments, asking her what foundation she used then pretending to forget the name seconds later, offering her my shoes for an event and "accidentally" giving her two left ones. I never touched her, never threatened her, but I made sure she knew I didn't like her. That I saw through her act.

But it wasn't enough.

Because every time I tried to show people how fake she was, she flipped it around and played the victim. Luka would give me that disappointed look-the one that made my stomach twist in knots.

One time, during a pool party at Luka's place, she slipped while walking near the deep end. She didn't fall in. Barely even tripped. But I laughed-loudly-and made a snide comment about how the ground must be allergic to her plastic personality.

Everyone stared. Luka's face turned to stone. Isis burst into tears and ran inside.

I was a villain in everyone's eyes after that.

But the worst thing I ever did?

It was during Luka's birthday party. A huge affair with hundreds of guests, live music, champagne flowing like water. I had planned the prank for weeks.

I hired a handsome man to pose as a waiter. He delivered a tray to Isis during the dinner and on it was a crystal-clear photo of her leaving a hotel with him. The photo was fake, digitally altered, but it looked real. Alongside it, a note: "Still think she's perfect?"

She gasped so loudly the music practically stopped.

Luka saw the photo. He was furious, but he didn't say a word at first.

It wasn't until he found me near the pool that night that he finally snapped.

"I warned you," he said, his voice dangerously calm.

I smirked, folding my arms. "You should thank me. I'm saving you from a gold-digging fraud-"

He cut me off. "You'll apologize. Right here. Right now."

I raised my chin. "Not a chance."

"Then we're done."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"I said we're done, Valeria. Don't call me. Don't text me. I don't want anything to do with you ever again."

And then he walked away.

I thought he'd cool off in a few days. Maybe a week. Surely he couldn't stay mad forever.

But I was wrong.

He blocked me. Refused to take my calls. His assistant stonewalled every attempt to reach him. I left flowers, handwritten notes. Nothing.

Desperate, I sent one last message through his assistant, saying I wanted to apologize.

He didn't reply.

I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't breathe. I hated myself. I started to see just how awful I'd been, how blinded by jealousy. I wanted to make things right.

But before I could, the news broke-Luka proposed to Isis.

I think a part of me died that day.

I locked myself in my room for three days and cried like a child. The wedding invitation came a week later. Gold-embossed, elegant. Like a knife to the gut.

But I couldn't throw it away.

I sat on my bed, holding the invite, and cried all over again.

Then I made a decision.

If I couldn't be with Luka, if I couldn't be his friend, I could at least try to fix what I'd broken. I called Isis and asked to meet.

We met at my favorite café. I wore beige, soft makeup, no pretense.

I apologized. I meant it.

Isis smiled sweetly, wiped her eyes, and told me she understood. She promised she'd talk to Luka. Said she'd tell him how sincere I was.

But if I'd known what was going to happen next...

I would have never made that call.

Valeria's POV

Isis never made it home that day.

Later that evening, I received a call from the police asking to come in for questioning. I was stunned. Confused. But I went.

They told me she'd been in a car accident. That the vehicle had skidded off a narrow turn and crashed into a ditch. It caught fire. Isis was declared dead on the scene. The cause? Brake failure.

They told me I was the last person to see her alive.

My stomach dropped.

I answered every question calmly, even though I was shaking inside. I told them we had met to talk, that we'd made peace. I even showed them our café receipt, the timestamp. The security footage confirmed my story. But the whispers started-whispers I was already too familiar with.

People already believed I was jealous of her. And now she was dead. Of course they'd think it was me.

I don't know what strings my father pulled, but somehow, I was removed from the list of suspects. Officially.

But I knew Luka wouldn't believe it. And I was right.

Word spread that he'd doubled down on his obsession to find the killer. He was convinced someone had tampered with the brakes. And the most convenient person to blame?

Me.

Months passed. The police ruled it an accident and closed the case.

But Luka... never let it go.

I thought, deep down, I'd feel satisfied. The woman who stole my future was gone but instead, I felt nothing but guilt.

Because even if I hadn't killed her, I had wanted her gone. I had fantasized about her disappearance. And now that she was... it just felt wrong.

I knew Luka was grieving, and I wanted so badly to be there for him. To hold his hand. To say sorry. For everything. But I couldn't.

Because of everything I had done.

I attended Isis's funeral, wore black and said nothing. I stood near the back, trying to remain unnoticed.

But Luka noticed me.

As soon as the service ended, he appeared at my side and grabbed my wrist so hard I winced.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled under his breath.

I turned to him slowly. "I came to pay my respects."

He scoffed, jaw tight, eyes bloodshot. "You've got some nerve."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

"Meet me at the registry tomorrow. Ten a.m. sharp."

I blinked. "What? Why?"

"We're getting married." Then he dropped my wrist and walked away before I could say another word.

I should have found it suspicious. I should have questioned it but I didn't.

Because I was desperate. Because I was still in love with him. Because some part of me believed this was a second chance.

So the next morning, I showed up at the registry. In a wedding dress.

Like a lovesick idiot.

He didn't even look at me. Barely spoke. We signed the papers. The judge congratulated us. There were no photos. No kiss. No smiles. Just the cold sound of a gavel and the rush of a dream I should've let die.

The drive to his mansion was quiet, eerily so and I couldn't stop fidgeting with my dress. I was nervous, wondering what could possibly be going through his mind. He remained detached, kept his gaze directed at the road, eyes distant, hurt still lingering in them. I had to remind myself that this was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, I had just gotten married to my first love. But deep down, I must have known I made a terrible mistake but I refused to acknowledge it till it was staring me right in the face.

The car finally came to a stop at the mansion and he turned to me, expression hard and eyes empty.

"You know why I did this, don't you?"

I shook my head slowly, already terrified of what he was going to say.

"I know you killed her."

I froze.

He leaned closer. "You called her out that day so you could tamper with her car. I know it. You were always jealous. And now she's dead."

"That's not true-" I began.

"I don't want your lies," he snapped. "The police might've let you go because of your father, but I won't."

My mouth went dry. "You're wrong-"

He pulled out his phone and showed me something. A photo. A grainy image of me standing in the parking lot next to Isis's car during our café meeting. I sure as hell hadn't been anywhere near Isis' car that day, I didn't even know the color or the brand till I saw that photo. It was clearly engineered but Luka didn't seem to think so. It felt like karma for the prank I pulled.

"That's your proof?" I asked, voice shaking.

"And this," he added, flipping to a screenshot of an anonymous text message that read: She did it. Valeria killed Isis. She admitted it to me.

I stared at the screen, blinking in disbelief. "Anyone could've sent that-"

"You think I care? You think I need a confession?" He laughed bitterly. "You killed the woman I loved. And since the law won't punish you, I will."

It hit me then.

This wasn't a second chance.

This was a punishment. I had been sentenced to marriage.

"I'm going to make your life hell," he declared coldly. "You'll be trapped with me. You'll sleep in my house, eat my food, live by my rules but you'll find no peace. You'll go from the spoiled little brat you are to rueing the day you were brought into this world. I'll never let you forget your crime, your sin. You wanted to be my wife that badly, be prepared for everything that comes with it."

He walked away after that, leaving me frozen in the backseat of the car. Tears pooled in my eyes, but I didn't let them fall.

I had walked right into it. Blinded by love. By guilt. By stupidity.

And for three years, I paid the price.

But it was over now.

Finally, it was over.

I was out. Not completely healed. Not yet free of the trauma. But I had survived.

And I was carrying a child now.

I didn't know what the future held. I had no plan. No job. No idea where I would go once I landed in New Zealand. But I had my baby. And that was enough for now.

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.

No more Luka.

No more misery.

No more begging to be loved.

This time, I would rebuild from scratch. Stronger. Smarter. And never, ever a victim of love again.

Valeria's POV

Seven years.

Seven whole years since I left the States, pregnant and heartbroken, with nothing but a carry-on bag and a secret growing inside me.

Now here I was again-standing at the arrival gate of JFK, holding the hand of the little boy who had become my whole world.

"Valeria!"

I turned just in time to see Clark-my father's ever-loyal assistant-cutting through the crowd, waving at me with a bright smile on his face. He looked exactly the same as I remembered him: tall, sleek, always impeccably dressed in dark suits and matching ties. If not for the wrinkles near his eyes and a few grays in his neatly combed hair, I could almost believe time hadn't touched him.

"Clark," I smiled, and let go of Elliot's hand to give him a quick hug. "You didn't have to come personally."

"Are you kidding?" he said, stepping back. "Your father would have had my head if I didn't show up myself. He's been checking his phone every five minutes since your plane took off."

I laughed softly. "Sounds like Dad."

As Clark helped load our bags into the back of the sleek black town car, Elliot climbed in on his own, settling into the back seat like a little gentleman. I followed after, buckling him in before sitting beside him.

"He's eager to see you both," Clark said as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. "Especially the little guy. He hasn't stopped talking about meeting his grandson again."

I smiled as I looked at Elliot, who was gazing out the window, wide-eyed but calm. "He came to see us when Elliot was born," I reminisced softly. "Flew all the way to Auckland the minute I told him. But he couldn't stay long. Too many things going on in New York."

Clark nodded. "Your father's schedule has always been insane, but I know for a fact those trips were sacred to him. Even if it was just once or twice a year, he always made time for you both."

"I know," I murmured, eyes drifting to the glass. "He tried. He really did."

There had been moments, especially in those early days with Elliot where I missed my mother so badly it felt like my chest was caving in. I remembered what my father told me when I was six: She had decided she wasn't happy with her life and our family. So she decided to leave.

But even as a child, I'd never understood how a mother could leave her daughter like that. One day she was brushing my hair, singing lullabies; the next, she was just... gone. No note. No explanation.

I'd been so close to her, and then nothing.

I remember asking myself over and over: Was I too loud? Too needy? Too much of a burden? I thought maybe if I had smiled more or cried less, she would've stayed. The questions haunted me for years. I'd throw tantrums sometimes, hoping maybe she'd show up if she saw how much I missed her. But all it ever did was hurt my father.

So I stopped.

He was trying so hard to fill the void she left behind, trying to give me everything, anything. And I didn't want him to think he wasn't enough.

But when I gave birth to Elliot, when I sat alone in that hospital room with no one to hold my hand or guide me through the terror of motherhood, I understood what true loneliness felt like.

I almost fell apart. Postpartum hit me hard. I cried when he cried. I panicked over the smallest things. There were nights I couldn't sleep, terrified something would happen to him while I closed my eyes.

I missed her more than ever. But my OB/GYN, bless her heart, had the wisdom of a hundred mothers and the patience of a saint. She doubled as my therapist, guiding me through it, helping me adjust. Without her, I'm not sure I would've made it through those first months.

But I did.

Eventually, I did more than survive-I started to live again.

After settling in Auckland, I finally told my father everything. The truth about the marriage, the lies, the pain and the divorce. Everything Luka had done to me.

He had to excuse himself halfway through.

I thought for sure he'd fly back and kill Luka, but somehow-by what I can only call the grace of God-he kept his word and didn't act on it.

He offered to buy me a home in the city, set me up comfortably. But I declined. I wanted to start over for real.

All my life, I'd been coddled and protected. I had no sense of what the real world felt like. But I was a mother now. I wanted to become someone my son could look up to. Someone he could be proud of.

My father didn't like it, but he respected it. Still, he made me promise that if I ever struggled, really struggled, I'd ask for help.

I promised.

That's how I ended up working with a nonprofit for orphaned and disabled children. At first, it was just something to do. Something to take my mind off everything. But then it became... healing.

Loving those children, seeing the world through their eyes, fighting for their future-it helped me find myself again.

It also gave Elliot an environment filled with love and laughter. He was surrounded by children, most of whom adored him. He grew up kind, sharp and socially active.

And way, way too smart for his age.

"Uncle Clark," Elliot called suddenly from the back seat, not taking his eyes off the road. "We should be arriving at Grandpa's mansion in precisely thirteen minutes, based on the current speed and traffic flow. That's approximately eleven-point-eight miles from our current location."

Clark blinked, then looked back through the mirror, grinning. "Well damn, kid. You're spot on."

Elliot shrugged modestly. "I like to keep my brain active."

Clark laughed. "Alright, what do you want as a reward for being a genius?"

Elliot gave him a stern little look. "Don't treat me like a child, Uncle Clark. I don't need to get a reward for everything or I'll become lazy and spoiled. A treat should be significant."

I couldn't hold back the laugh that escaped me.

"Oh, Elliot," I said fondly, ruffling his blonde hair.

"I only let you do this because I love you, Mommy," he sighed. "Don't abuse that privilege."

I grinned, biting down the laughter bubbling in my chest. "You're too adorable."

Elliot was six, but he had the vocabulary and poise of a miniature professor. With his soft blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, he was every bit my child-but the face?

The face was Luka's.

The sharp jawline, the defined cheekbones, the same expressive eyes, even the way he furrowed his brow when thinking-he was the spitting image of his father. It hurt sometimes. Seeing Luka in him. Remembering everything I'd lost. But no matter how much it hurt, it never touched the love I had for this boy.

He was mine. He was everything.

My little genius.

We'd made a life in New Zealand, and because of my work with the nonprofit, I'd gained some notoriety. My name was often mentioned at charity galas, fundraisers, and awareness campaigns. I didn't chase attention, but my work got noticed anyway.

So when I received an invitation to a massive charity ball in New York, I wasn't entirely surprised.

It was why we'd come.

We were only supposed to be here for a few days, maybe a week. Then we'd fly back to Auckland.

Of course, my father had other plans. He'd been trying to convince me to stay in New York for years now. But I always refused.

I had no intention of running into Luka again. Not now. Not ever.

Still, part of me couldn't shake the feeling that coming back might stir up something buried.

Even now, I was sure Luka still believed I was the villain in his tragic little love story. The heartless heiress who killed his fiancée out of jealousy and got away with it because of her father's money.

But it didn't matter anymore.

I didn't owe him my truth.

I didn't owe him anything.

And if by some twist of fate our paths crossed, I would walk right past him without flinching.

I only care about my family and my work for the greater good.

As if reading my thoughts, Clark cleared his throat. "So, the event starts tomorrow night. It's a formal black-tie charity gala hosted by the Ashton Foundation. Very exclusive, very high-profile. The mayor will be there, a few senators, some of the wealthiest donors in the country."

"Sounds serious," I quipped, turning toward the window.

"You'll be honored during the event," Clark added. "You'll give a short speech, receive an award for your humanitarian work, and possibly secure funding for three new centers in Wellington and Christchurch. All eyes will be on you."

I nodded slowly. I wasn't nervous, I was proud of my work. But this was a whole different level of exposure.

I looked at Elliot. "What about you, baby? Want to come to the ball or stay home with a babysitter?"

Elliot raised a brow, his voice filled with confidence. "I want to come. I even prepared a poem to recite if they give me a mic."

"Oh really?" I smirked.

"I'm going to make you proud, Mommy. Everyone will remember my name."

I didn't doubt it for a second.

Elliot was extraordinary. Every teacher, every counselor, every specialist we'd ever seen had said the same thing: his mind worked in ways far beyond his age. At six years old, he was already solving twelfth grade math problems and reading Shakespeare for fun. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to understand the world in all its depth.

He was curious about everything. Philosophical at times. Sometimes even frighteningly intuitive.

I used to wonder if it would be too much to call him a genius-but I'd stopped wondering a long time ago.

Still, I tried to give him as normal a childhood as I could. I didn't want him growing up thinking intelligence was the only thing that made him special. He was kind, compassionate and full of quiet strength.

He may have had his father's face, but he had none of Luka's cruelty.

And thank God for that.

I reached over and squeezed his hand gently. "You already make me proud every single day."

He smiled up at me with that perfect, boyish charm that melted my heart every time.

I meant what I said. I wasn't just proud of him, I was proud of us.

We'd come a long way-just the two of us. There were times I thought I'd never recover from what Luka did to me. Times I thought I'd never be whole again. But becoming a mother hadn't broken me-it rebuilt me.

And I knew I'd done something right, because Elliot loved life. He was emotionally stable, despite the lack of a father. Happy. Secure.

All the things I never was. But now I was in a better place.

As we arrived at the massive gates of my father's mansion, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be-for now.

Just a mother with her son. And a new chapter about to begin.