"I am not," she insisted, but her voice was weak, her eyes filling with hot, shameful tears. She was.
"You are," Elias said, but not cruelly. "You are letting him haunt you."
He stood. He walked to her bag. He pulled out the sketchbook and the pencil.
He placed them, not on the table, but on her lap, on the thin hospital blanket, right next to the feeding, sleeping baby.
"So, he has his father's eyes," Elias repeated, his voice low, intense. "Good."
She looked up, shocked.
"Use it," he commanded. "Use the rage. Use the betrayal. Use the color of those eyes. You are a designer, Ariane. Your work... it was all defense. It was all armor. It was the work of a fugitive."
He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "But you are not a fugitive anymore. You are a mother. A mother has
