Lila's P.O.V
The vineyard looked different in the late autumn light—golden, almost forgiving, as if the vines themselves were trying to pretend the last few months hadn’t happened. The boys were three months old now: Aiden with his father’s dimples and serious blue eyes, Noah with his darker curls and the watchful gaze that sometimes made my stomach twist. They slept in their cribs side by side, tiny fists curled near their cheeks, and every time I looked at them I felt the same impossible mixture of love and dread.
I hadn’t planned to contact Damien. After he showed up at our door that night—smirking, saying “We need to talk about my child” like it was a casual business arrangement—I’d told myself it was over. Ethan had called the police. Damien had disappeared again before the cruiser
