The baby is eleven days old when you walk into one of the most expensive divorce law offices in Manhattan with him strapped against your chest.
You are not dressed for pity. You are not there to make a scene. You wear a cream blouse, dark slacks that still do not close comfortably after giving birth, and a navy coat wrapped around the gray baby carrier where Mateo sleeps with one tiny fist pressed against his cheek.
Your son.
Not Rodrigo Castellan’s heir.
Not the Castellan family’s bloodline.
Yours.
Because for the last eight months of your pregnancy, Rodrigo has been everywhere except where he should have been.
You step out of the elevator onto the thirty-fifth floor of a glass tower overlooking Midtown. The reception area looks like quiet wealth: white marble floors, pale leather chairs, fresh orchids, and a receptionist trained to smile without reacting to anything.
