“He’s lucky,” the doctor said. “Acute bronchiolitis. Another hour outside, and he wouldn’t have survived.”
That night, Emma stayed with the twins—Caleb and Noah—in the living room. Michael sat awake, watching every breath.
Then the keypad beeped.
“Michael!” came a sharp voice.
Victoria Lane.
Panic struck. He rushed Emma and the babies through a hidden corridor as Victoria swept in, suspicion sharp behind her eyes. She noticed a baby bottle.
Michael lied smoothly. Victoria let it go—but watched.
Days passed in secrecy until Victoria followed them and found the truth.
“I knew it,” she sneered. “Playing family with the maid and her bastards.”
Michael stepped in front of Emma.
“Don’t speak like that.”
Victoria delivered her ultimatum. Emma chose to leave rather than ruin him.
That night, Michael found a cracked photo frame under the bed.
A woman in uniform smiled. On her lap sat a little girl—Emma. Beside her was a seven-year-old boy with a scarred knee.
“Rosa…” he whispered.
Emma was Rosa’s daughter—the woman who raised him, the only one who ever loved him unconditionally.
Michael threw Victoria out, then chased a bus bound for San Gabriel. He stopped it on the road and walked to the back.