I told Valentina to lower her voice. That the girl was shaking. That the babies needed food. That we could argue later.
She wasn’t listening.
She was already pulling out her phone to call security.
Thomas was still by the door, silent, watching.
Part of me knew this looked insane—bringing strangers home days before my wedding.
But what I saw in Valentina wasn’t concern.
It was contempt.
Pure and simple.
Then she stepped closer. Reached out. Pulled Valeria’s hand away from her chest.
“That pendant isn’t yours,” she said.
Valeria grabbed at it—but too late.
The half-moon swung into view, resting against the baby’s onesie.
And the color drained from Valentina’s face so fast even I noticed.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
No anger now.
Just fear.
The room went quiet—except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint tap of metal against fabric.
Valeria swallowed, lips cracked but steady.
“It was my mom’s,” she said. “She told me… if I ever found you… not to let you lie.”
A cold feeling crept into my fingers.
Valentina stepped back, hitting the coffee table. The cake box fell, ribbon slipping loose. White frosting smeared across the floor.
Perfect. Ruined in seconds.