My Stepbrother, My Baby's Stepfather

Bella “Come on, pick up.” My hair was messy in the wind, but it wasn’t as messy as my heart. I’m going to castrate my husband. I’ve been calling him for five whole minutes, after I sent three messages, one of which had some very colourful words, and there was still no answer. I couldn’t believe he was doing this, and today of all days. Typical Diego. Always late when it mattered, always unreachable when we needed him most. The phone felt slick in my palm as I stood outside the restaurant, half-tempted to hurl it at the glass. Inside, balloons framed the window of half of the restaurant I’d reserved for Lucia’s birthday dinner. She sat there in her pink dress, legs swinging, eyes shining with that brand of innocent excitement. She’d been waiting for forty-five minutes, but even I could tell that her patience was starting to dwindle. The waitress refilled her juice again and placed another donut beside her cup. Lucia thanked her sweetly, but her gaze flicked toward me with that quiet, worried look children wear when they sense something is wrong. I smiled back with that practiced smile I’d learned during five years of this marriage and dialed again. “Pick up the phone, Diego,” I muttered, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “You promised you’d be here by seven. Not tomorrow.” For a moment, I almost laughed at the irony. Once upon a time, I’d loved that voice of his. The one that could make me believe every promise he whispered. I’d given up everything for that voice… my father’s approval, my family’s wealth, the only home I’d ever known. I thought I was choosing love over comfort. Turns out, I’d only traded it for an illusion. It wasn’t like this at first. Diego used to be kind, and sweet and hell, even romantic. But over the years, he started caring less, started noticing me less and eventually, my love faded too until it was all just… gone. The line went dead again. I was so distracted forming the words in my head that I was prepared to tell him, that I didn’t even notice that Lucia had gotten up and joined me outside. “Mommy?” Lucia’s small hand tugged at my cardigan. She stood beside me, her curls frizzing in the evening air, clutching her toy the way she did when she was nervous. “Is Daddy coming?” I forced a smile. “It’s cold, sweetheart. Let’s wait inside.” But she didn’t move. She was too smart, too observant. She knew when I averted her questions. My little mirror with Diego’s eyes. “Is he?” she asked again. A knot formed in my chest. Not because Diego was absent— he built himself a reputation of unreliability long ago—but because I’d let her believe, yet again, that he would have come in the first place. I was such a fool. So naive… and now Lucia was going to be hurt because of it. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He’d missed her third birthday too, and hadn’t stayed the whole time for her fourth. He missed her school play that she spent days practicing, and I’m convinced he’ll even miss her graduation. But he was the one who took the initiative for her birthday this year, and so I thought he actually cared… that he’d actually try. But I was wrong. “He’s probably stuck in traffic,” I lied gently, brushing a curl off her cheek. “You know how Daddy gets. He probably stopped for flowers.” Her brown eyes brightened. “He always gets the biggest ones.” “Exactly,” I whispered, and my throat burned with the lie. Another half hour crawled by. I finally ordered food rather than let her wait any longer. She devoured her fries and chicken tenders, ate her cupcake, then stared at the empty seat beside her. “He’ll come soon,” she said softly. I only nodded. I called again, because maybe the last fifty times were just unlucky. Of course, it went straight to voicemail. When the waitress came with the bill, I stalled. “Not yet, please. My husband’s on his way.” She smiled politely, but I saw the pity tucked behind it—the same look people give when they know the truth and wish you didn’t. Lucia drew hearts in her coloring book, though her strokes were slower now. I could see disappointment setting in, quiet and deep. I knew I couldn’t fool her any longer. She was young, but she wasn’t stupid. And this has happened to her far too many times for it not to be noticeable by now, even to a five-year old. I wanted to cry, but tears felt useless. I’d cried enough for Diego to fill a lifetime. This was why we were divorcing. I couldn’t keep watching him break promises to the one person who adored him most. He was supposed to be her number one protector, not her first heartbreaker. I’d already accepted that he didn’t love me anymore; I just hadn’t been ready to admit that he didn’t deserve her either. We’d agreed to keep the divorce quiet for now—for Lucia’s sake. But tonight, I wished I’d signed those papers ages ago. “Sweetheart, give me a minute,” I said, standing. “Mommy needs to speak with the lady at the counter.” She nodded absently, coloring another crooked heart. At the front desk, I inhaled and forced a smile. “Hi. I’ll take the bill now since my husband won't be able to make it. But my daughter’s really disappointed and she really enjoyed the birthday cupcake. do you think it’s possible if I could get another to cheer her—” The chime above the door cut me off. Someone entered, and instinct made me glance toward the sound, only to freeze at the huge flat-screen television hanging over the fancy front desk. ‘Emerging businessman Diego Moretti spotted dining with the Alvarez heiress, Sofia, at La Magnifique.’ The reporter’s voice faded beneath the ringing in my ears. The clip showed him laughing, leaning in close, looking like the man he used to be with someone else. So this’s the reason, huh. The reason for neglecting his daughter’s birthday, for another woman, a young, rich woman. The waitress followed my gaze, sympathy softening her face. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” But I barely heard her. My thoughts went straight to Lucia. She’d seen it too. Her small frame trembled, eyes wide with betrayal too big for her age. “Mommy,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Is that Daddy? Why is he there?” I rushed to her, holding her in my arms as she sobbed. My own tears fell, too, but inside I was angry. No… I was livid. If I could get my hands on Diego, I would have strangled him. How dare he! How. Dare. He! On our daughter’s birthday! Lucia hiccupped through her sobs, and then coughed. It was loud and nasty and alarming. Panic set in as she coughed again, this time it was followed by a wheeze, and I knew what was happening. She has asthma. My world collapsed in one heartbeat. “Lucia? No, no, no.” I grabbed her inhaler, shaking it hard. “Come on, baby. Deep breaths.” Nothing. Just that awful rasping sound. “Come on, baby. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” I puffed and puffed, but she kept wheezing. “Help!” I called out, my voice splintering. “Somebody, please!” A few heads turned, but only one man moved. “I’ve got her,” he said, low and firm, wrapping a steady arm around us. A large, warm hand wrapped around mine, and I looked up to see sharp, blue eyes gazing into my teary ones. “I’ve got her. Let me help,” the stranger said. I didn’t have time to ask questions or even stop to focus on how good he looked. I simply nodded desperately as he effortlessly scooped Lucia in his arms and rushed her to his car. Everything blurred—the weight of my daughter in his arms, the rush through the cool night air, the sound of tires screeching as we sped away. I prayed desperately. God, please don’t torture her like this, after such a terrible night. Within minutes, we were at St. Joseph’s hospital, and Lucia was in the arms of care before it was too late. Relief hit so hard it knocked the strength out of my knees. I staggered back against the wall, shaking, tears hot and useless. The stranger caught me before I fell. “Easy,” he murmured, his hand steady at my elbow. “She’s safe now.” I looked up, ready to thank him, but stopped. The corridor light caught his face, the cut of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes, beautiful and warm. I’m kind of lost in it.