Page 15 of Freed
Everything.
I squeeze her hand, firmer this time.
“You’re not,” I say. “I’m here.”
And I mean it.
In this moment standing in a hospital room that smells like antiseptic and fear I finally understand the cost of my indecision. Of my obsession. Of letting my heart wander while my responsibilities remained exactly where they’ve always been.
Elizabeth is gone. And maybe she left because she knew that I would never fully choose her. But Fran is here.
Fran’s eyes shine with unshed tears. “I need you to be here, Lorenzo. Not just today. I can’t do this alone.”
Her parents don’t say a word, but the room is thick with expectation.
I nod once.
“I know,” I say. “And I will be.”
Later, after her parents leave and Fran finally drifts into a restless sleep, I stand at the window and stare out at the city. Somewhere out there, Elizabeth is still missing. Still running. Still haunting every quiet corner of my mind.
But this is real. Fran. This child. This responsibility. This life that nearly slipped through my fingers tonight.
I press my hand to the glass and let the decision settle, heavy and irreversible.
I will be better.
I will be present.
I will do this right.
Even if it means burying the part of me that will always ache for the woman who disappeared.
Because a Don doesn’t get to choose love over legacy.
Fran stays in the hospital for two more days. By the time we return to the penthouse, the color has come back to her cheeks, though something in her remains dimmed, as if the scare drained more than just her strength. She speaks when spoken to. She eats when reminded. She watches me with an expression I can’t quite name. Resignation, maybe.
I help her into my bed, adjusting the pillows until she’s comfortable. It feels wrong in a way I can’t articulate—this room, this bed, now occupied by a woman who was never meant to be here like this with her perfume lingering on Elizabeth’s pillow.
As I turn to leave, she reaches out and takes my hand. Her grip is light and uncertain.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly.
“Doing what?”
She hesitates, her thumb brushing once over my knuckle before stilling. “You brought me here. Not to my house.”
“I did.”
“Why?” Her voice is steady, but her eyes search my face. “We both know you don’t want me here.”
I look down at our joined hands. At the faint tremor in hers. At the swell of her stomach beneath the sheets—proof of everything that’s changed, everything I can’t undo.
“This is my home,” I say at last. “And you’re carrying my child.”
“That’s not an answer,” she says softly.
It’s true. It’s not.
