sia

bo. I had the signed papers, but t

n email notification glowed on my phone. From Gabri

tigious art conservation laboratory. An invitation from my old mentor, Mother Seraphina, formerly of the Vatican Archi

ke. I typed my acceptance b

search notebooks. I bypassed the cavernous walk-in closet, a museum of couture costumes for a role I'd resi

my breath hit me. I sat heavily on the bed. Then came the nausea, shar

s I'd ignored. The fatigue. T

weeks. My bloo

o

ey and a stranger's perfume. It was rough, detached, an act of possession over in minutes. But as he'd fallen asleep, h

ure felt like

in cash with shaking hands. Back in

tretched into an

nes. Stark.

gna

d I slid down the wall. A child. Conceived in cold po

t Alessia, evaporated. This wa

s heir, his legacy, another asset in his gild

isappear c

"Don't file the papers yet.

what's h

trus

na. "Mother," I said, my voice bre

, and firm. "Come to me, child.

tools, went the signed divorce papers and the positive pregna

ion kit that belonged to my mother. Inside, tucked und

believe some things ar

have the courage to