Chapter 4

Valeria’s POV

Seven years.

Seven whole years since I left the States, pregnant and heartbroken, with nothing but a carry-on bag and a secret growing inside me.

Now here I was again—standing at the arrival gate of JFK, holding the hand of the little boy who had become my whole world.

“Valeria!”

I turned just in time to see Clark—my father’s ever-loyal assistant—cutting through the crowd, waving at me with a bright smile on his face. He looked exactly the same as I remembered him: tall, sleek, always impeccably dressed in dark suits and matching ties. If not for the wrinkles near his eyes and a few grays in his neatly combed hair, I could almost believe time hadn’t touched him.

“Clark,” I smiled, and let go of Eliot’s hand to give him a quick hug. “You didn’t have to come personally.”

“Are you kidding?” he said, stepping back. “Your father would have had my head if I didn’t show up myself. He’s been checking his phone every five minutes since your plane took off.”

I laughed softly. “Sounds like Dad.”

As Clark helped load our bags into the back of the sleek black town car, Eliot climbed in on his own, settling into the back seat like a little gentleman. I followed after, buckling him in before sitting beside him.

“He’s eager to see you both,” Clark said as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. “Especially the little guy. He hasn’t stopped talking about meeting his grandson again.”

I smiled as I looked at Eliot, who was gazing out the window, wide-eyed but calm. “He came to see us when Eliot was born,” I said softly. “Flew all the way to Auckland the minute I told him. But he couldn’t stay long. Too many things going on in New York.”

Clark nodded. “Your father’s schedule has always been insane, but I know for a fact those trips were sacred to him. Even if it was just once or twice a year, he always made time for you both.”

“I know,” I murmured, eyes drifting to the glass. “He tried. He really did.”

There had been moments—especially in those early days with Eliot—where I missed my mother so badly it felt like my chest was caving in. I remembered what my father told me when I was six: She had decided she wasn't happy with her life and our family. So she decided to leave.

But even as a child, I’d never understood how a mother could leave her daughter like that. One day she was brushing my hair, singing lullabies; the next, she was just… gone. No note. No explanation.

I’d been so close to her, and then nothing.

I remember asking myself over and over: Was I too loud? Too needy? Too much of a burden? I thought maybe if I had smiled more or cried less, she would’ve stayed. The questions haunted me for years. I’d throw tantrums sometimes, hoping maybe she’d show up if she saw how much I missed her. But all it ever did was hurt my father.

So I stopped.

He was trying so hard to fill the void she left behind, trying to give me everything, anything. And I didn’t want him to think he wasn’t enough.

But when I gave birth to Eliot, when I sat alone in that hospital room with no one to hold my hand or guide me through the terror of motherhood—I understood what true loneliness felt like.

I almost fell apart. Postpartum hit me hard. I cried when he cried. I panicked over the smallest things. There were nights I couldn’t sleep, terrified something would happen to him while I closed my eyes.

I missed her more than ever. But my OB/GYN, bless her heart, had the wisdom of a hundred mothers and the patience of a saint. She doubled as my therapist, guiding me through it, helping me adjust. Without her, I’m not sure I would’ve made it through those first months.

But I did.

Eventually, I did more than survive—I started to live again.

After settling in Auckland, I finally told my father everything. The truth about the marriage, the lies, the pain and the divorce. Everything Luka had done to me.

He had to excuse himself halfway through.

I thought for sure he’d fly back and kill Luka, but somehow—by what I can only call the grace of God—he kept his word and didn’t act on it.

He offered to buy me a home in the city, set me up comfortably. But I declined. I wanted to start over for real.

All my life, I’d been coddled and protected. I had no sense of what the real world felt like. But I was a mother now. I wanted to become someone my son could look up to. Someone he could be proud of.

My father didn’t like it, but he respected it. Still, he made me promise that if I ever struggled, really struggled, I’d ask for help.

I promised.

That’s how I ended up working with a nonprofit for orphaned and disabled children. At first, it was just something to do. Something to take my mind off everything. But then it became… healing.

Loving those children, seeing the world through their eyes, fighting for their future—it helped me find myself again.

It also gave Eliot an environment filled with love and laughter. He was surrounded by children, most of whom adored him. He grew up kind, sharp, socially active.

And way, way too smart for his age.

“Uncle Clark,” Eliot said suddenly from the back seat, not taking his eyes off the road. “We should be arriving at Grandpa’s mansion in precisely thirteen minutes, based on the current speed and traffic flow. That’s approximately eleven-point-eight miles from our current location.”

Clark blinked, then looked back through the mirror, grinning. “Well damn, kid. You’re spot on.”

Eliot shrugged modestly. “I like to keep my brain active.”

Clark laughed. “Alright, what do you want as a reward for being a genius?”

Eliot gave him a stern little look. “Don’t treat me like a child, Uncle Clark. I don’t need to get a reward for everything, or I’ll get lazy and become spoilt. A treat should be significant.”

I couldn’t hold back the laugh that escaped me.

“Oh, Eliot,” I said fondly, ruffling his blonde hair.

“I only let you do this because I love you, Mummy,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t abuse that privilege.”

I grinned, biting down the laughter bubbling in my chest. “You’re too adorable.”

Eliot was six, but he had the vocabulary and poise of a miniature professor. With his soft blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, he was every bit my child—but the face?

The face was Luka’s.

The sharp jawline, the defined cheekbones, the same expressive eyes, even the way he furrowed his brow when thinking—he was the spitting image of his father. It hurt sometimes. Seeing Luka in him. Remembering everything I’d lost. But no matter how much it hurt, it never touched the love I had for this boy.

He was mine. He was everything.

My little genius.

We’d made a life in New Zealand, and because of my work with the nonprofit, I’d gained some notoriety. My name was often mentioned at charity galas, fundraisers, and awareness campaigns. I didn’t chase attention, but my work got noticed anyway.

So when I received an invitation to a massive charity ball in New York, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

It was why we’d come.

We were only supposed to be here for a few days, maybe a week. Then we’d fly back to Auckland.

Of course, my father had other plans. He’d been trying to convince me to stay in New York for years now. But I always refused.

I had no intention of running into Luka again. Not now. Not ever.

Still, part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that coming back might stir up something buried.

Even now, I was sure Luka still believed I was the villain in his tragic little love story. The heartless heiress who killed his fiancée out of jealousy and got away with it because of her father’s money.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

I didn’t owe him my truth.

I didn’t owe him anything.

And if by some twist of fate our paths crossed, I would walk right past him without flinching.

I only care about my family and my work for the greater good.

As if reading my thoughts, Clark cleared his throat. “So, the event starts tomorrow night. It’s a formal black-tie charity gala hosted by the Ashton Foundation. Very exclusive, very high-profile. The mayor will be there, a few senators, some of the wealthiest donors in the country.”

“Sounds serious,” I said, turning toward the window.

“You’ll be honored during the event,” Clark added. “You’ll give a short speech, receive an award for your humanitarian work, and possibly secure funding for three new centers in Wellington and Christchurch. All eyes will be on you.”

I nodded slowly. I wasn’t nervous. I was proud of my work. But this was a whole different level of exposure.

I looked at Eliot. “What about you, baby? Want to come to the ball or stay home with a babysitter?”

Eliot raised a brow, his voice filled with confidence. “I want to come. I even prepared a poem to recite if they give me a mic.”

“Oh really?” I smirked.

“I’m going to make you proud, Mummy. Everyone will remember my name.”

I didn’t doubt it for a second.

Eliot was extraordinary. Every teacher, every counselor, every specialist we’d ever seen had said the same thing: his mind worked in ways far beyond his age. At six years old, he was already solving twelfth grade math problems and reading Shakespeare for fun. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to understand the world in all its depth.

He was curious about everything. Philosophical at times. Sometimes even frighteningly intuitive.

I used to wonder if it would be too much to call him a genius—but I’d stopped wondering a long time ago.

Still, I tried to give him as normal a childhood as I could. I didn’t want him growing up thinking intelligence was the only thing that made him special. He was kind. Compassionate. And full of quiet strength.

He may have had his father’s face, but he had none of Luka’s cruelty.

And thank God for that.

I reached over and squeezed his hand gently. “You already make me proud every single day.”

He smiled up at me with that perfect, boyish charm that melted my heart every time.

I meant what I said. I wasn’t just proud of him. I was proud of us.

We’d come a long way—just the two of us. There were times I thought I’d never recover from what Luka did to me. Times I thought I’d never be whole again. But becoming a mother hadn’t broken me—it rebuilt me.

And I knew I’d done something right, because Eliot loved life. He was emotionally stable, despite the lack of a father. Happy. Secure.

All the things I never was. But now I was in a better place.

As we arrived at the massive gates of my father's mansion, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be—for now.

Just a mother. With her son. And a new chapter about to begin.