Leaning against his car, cigarette in hand. Then Chiara appeared, immaculate in soft pinks, pearls in her hair, not a trace of exhaustion on her flawless face.
And next to her, a little girl in a white leotard, ballet slippers, ribbons around her wrists. No older than ten.
The child’s face lit up the moment she saw him.
“Daddy!” she ran into his arms.
Damian crushed his cigarette underfoot and lifted her. “Lella, did you dance well today?”
“I did! My teacher said I’m ready for the recital!” she chirped.
Chiara laughed softly. “Of course she did. Our little star.”
Our daughter.
The words tore through me like shards of glass.
Because my marriage with Damian was never over.
And our real daughter, Isla, was gone.
Gone because of her.
So who was this girl calling him Daddy?
And how could he smile like nothing had ever happened?
The scene before me was too vivid, too real.
I bit my lip so hard it bled, just to stop myself from screaming.
So that was it.
He had helped her destroy me so they could live happily together. Husband and wife.
But why?
Why did he need to ruin me to do it?