**MATEO'S POV**

The painting was still in Isabella's hands.

I stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the detailed watercolor. Isabella in a flowing white wedding dress, me in a sharp black suit, both of us smiling like the rest of the world didn't exist. Lucian had captured something tender and hopeful in our faces that made my chest feel too tight.

My son had painted this.

He was telling me - in his own quiet, broken way - that he wanted Isabella to be his mother. For real.

I couldn't help the swell of pride that hit me. After everything he'd been through, the anger, the cruelty, the...