---- Chapter 11 Hector Porter POV: Jacob finally fell into a fitful, drug-induced sleep. The room was quiet again, but the silence was heavy with failure. My failure. | stood by his bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, and felt the full weight of my catastrophic misjudgment crash down on me. For six years, Almeda had been the bedrock of our lives. She was the one who knew Jacob was terrified of thunderstorms, who knew the sound of a siren would send him into a tailspin. She was the one who knew which foods were safe, which lullabies would soothe him. She had been his mother in every way that mattered, and both he and | had pushed her away with a cruelty she never deserved. Helene, who had been hovering by the door, finally crept closer. "Is he... is he going to be okay?" she whispered. | didn't even look at her. "No thanks to you." "It's not my fault!" she said, her voice rising with indignation. "It's hers! Almeda's! She's a cruel, heartless woman to abandon a sick child like this. If she truly cared for Jacob, she ---- would have come." Her words were meant to stoke my anger, to redirect my blame. A few weeks ago, it might have worked. But now, her voice just grated on my ears. Her presence was an intrusion, an insult to the raw, honest pain in that room. "She doesn't owe him anything, Helene," | said, my voice cold. "We made sure of that. We drove her away. Now get out." She stared at me, her mouth agape. "Hector..." "| said, get out!" | repeated, turning to face her. The look in my eyes must have been terrifying, because she flinched and scrambled out of the room without another word. Alone again, | sank into the chair by Jacob's bed, the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours hitting me like a physical force. My mind was a chaotic storm of regret. | had been so blind. | had clung to a ghost, to a physical resemblance, and in doing so, | had completely missed the real, living, breathing woman who had been trying to care for us all along. | pulled out my phone and dialed my lawyer. "Tom," | said when he answered. "The divorce papers Almeda and | signed. Have they been filed?" "Not yet, Hector," he replied. "There's a thirty-day cooling-off period required by the state. We were scheduled to file next week. Why?" ---- A sliver of hope, desperate and irrational, cut through my despair. It wasn't final. It wasn't too late. "Withdraw the filing," | said, my voice firm. "I'm contesting it." Almeda Hughes POV: The clatter of pans and the scent of fresh herbs were my therapy. My restaurant, "The Gilded Lily," was set to open in two weeks. | had poured every ounce of my energy, my time, and my settlement money into this place. It was more than a business; it was a resurrection. | was scrubbing down the stainless-steel countertops when my phone rang. It was an unknown number. | almost ignored it, but a nagging feeling made me answer. "Is this Ms. Almeda Hughes?" a polite, bureaucratic voice asked. "Yes, it is." "This is the County Clerk's office. We're calling to inform you that the divorce petition filed by you and Mr. Hector Porter has been withdrawn." & The sponge fell from my hand and clattered into the sink. "What? What do you mean, withdrawn? There must be a mistake." ---- "No mistake, ma'am," the clerk said patiently. "Mr. Porter's legal counsel filed a motion to withdraw this morning. The divorce has been cancelled." A cold, hot fury washed over me. Cancelled? After everything? | ended the call, my hands shaking. | immediately dialed the number | had sworn | would never call again. Hector answered on the first ring. "What the hell did you do?" | demanded, skipping any preamble. "Almeda," he said, his voice calm, almost soothing. It was a tone designed to manage, to control. "| realized we were making a mistake." "We are not making a mistake! You are making a mistake!" | shouted, my voice echoing in the empty restaurant. "l want this divorce, Hector!" "And | don't," he said simply. "Jacob needs you. He almost died, Almeda. He needs his mother." The audacity of his words left me speechless. "| am not his mother! And | am not your wife anymore! | signed those papers. You signed them!" "It's not too late to fix things," he said, his voice infuriatingly reasonable. "Come home, Almeda. We can work this out. For Jacob." ---- A humorless laugh escaped my lips. He was still trying to use Jacob as a pawn, as a leash to drag me back into that gilded cage. He still didn't understand. "Listen to me very carefully, Hector," | said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "| am done. We are over. If you do not re-file those papers by the end of the week, | will hire the most ruthless lawyer | can find, and | will see you in court. | will not be your wife. Not for one more day." | hung up the phone and slammed it down on the counter. | took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to quell the rage storming inside me. He thought he could just snap his fingers and | would come running back. He thought he still had power over me. | spent the rest of the day in a fury of activity, channeling my anger into my work. | would not let him ruin this. | would not let him drag me back. A few days later, my restaurant manager, a kind, middle-aged woman named Sarah, found me in the kitchen. "Almeda," she said, her expression hesitant. "There's a... a customer outside. He's bought out the entire restaurant for a private dinner tonight. He's asking for you." A sense of dread washed over me. "Who is it, Sarah?" "He said his name is Hector Porter." ---- | closed my eyes, my resolve hardening into steel. | untied my apron and walked out of the kitchen. And there he was. Sitting at the best table in my restaurant, my sanctuary. And in the chair beside him, looking small and pale, was Jacob.