Chapter 4

There was an old record shop across from the clinic. I sat on the second floor and, through the half-open blinds, watched Matteo walk Bianca into the recovery wing. He moved funds into a postnatal trust for her and leaned down to tell her, "Don't be afraid. I'm here."

He had said that to me outside the hospital room after my miscarriage, over and over. I had thought it was proof we had survived a loss together. It turned out it could be copied whole and handed to the next person.

Bianca complained that the medication made her feel sick. The clinic doctor lowered his voice and answered, "Once the number is in the register, no one is going to ask which machine the heartbeat came from." The door closed after that. I only caught half a sentence on the recording, but I saw Matteo promise that Bianca would sit at the head table on Founders' Night.

Before she got in the car she looked up and saw me through the rain. She did not hide. She lifted the black lion charm at her chest instead and smiled like she had already won the whole game.

I did not rush at her. The baby kicked again, and I bowed my head and pressed a hand to my belly. What I wanted was not to fight over a man in the street. It was for my daughter to be born safely. On the way back to the estate, I texted Giulia: Meet me at the back door of my mother's laundry tomorrow morning.

Matteo was still not home when I returned. The white dress I had prepared for the Cradle Rite hung in the closet, a ring of tiny red camellias embroidered at the cuffs. I took it down and folded it into the bottom of a suitcase.

The woman in the mirror was ashen, her belly high and round. I thought suddenly of the first miscarriage, of him wiping my tears and saying we would have other children. I had believed then that we were losing the same child.

Only now did I understand that some losses were never carried together. While I was in the worst of it, he had already started saving money, reserving a name, arranging a seat for a different future.

My mother's laundry stood at the end of the old street. Steam poured through the gap in the door, carrying the smell of soap and hot water. Giulia sat in the back room and listened to everything without telling me to expose them right away.

"This is enough to prove he's misusing Moretti Family resources," she said, "but not enough to prove Bianca's pregnancy is fake. What matters right now is invoking the Cradle Clause after you deliver. Protect yourself and the baby first."

I nodded, then found I could not even hold a water glass steady. My mother, Teresa Rinaldi, brought me a bowl of hot soup, saw my swollen feet and the strain I was trying to hide, and finally asked what had happened.

I meant to say nothing was wrong. But she crouched down to rub my feet, her palms rough and warm, and I started crying. I told her Matteo might have someone else. I told her I had seen him give the charm to Bianca. I told her I was afraid the baby would be taken the moment she was born.

My mother did not tell me to endure it for the child, and she did not call me useless. She pulled the key to the spare apartment upstairs from her apron pocket and pressed it into my hand. "Stay alive first. We'll sort out the rest one step at a time."

The key was small but as heavy as a door. I finally understood that leaving did not mean gritting your teeth and running alone. It meant having someone behind you willing to leave a light on.

After Giulia left, my mother asked no questions about the legal terms. She simply made me a bowl of buttered noodles and fried an egg until the edges were crisp, just the way I had loved it as a child.

Halfway through the noodles, I started crying again and felt ridiculous. The estate had everything, yet one simple bowl was what made me feel I might survive. My mother wiped my face. "A big house doesn't make a home. Having someone wait for you at the table does." That night I stayed upstairs over the laundry, listening to the washing machines tumble below, and slept more soundly than I ever had at the estate.