Leander stood in his studio, staring at a blank canvas, unable to paint.

Three days since Liora left. Three days of silence except for one brief text: “I’m fine. I need time. Please give me space.”

He’d respected it. Because what choice did he have?

Dashiell had all the power. All the leverage. All the control.

“You need to fight for her,” Fiammetta said from the doorway.

“How? He has lawyers. Money. The biological connection. What do I have?”

“You have love. You have history—”

“Love isn’t enough. It’s never been enough.” Leander set down his brush. “He won, Mother. Maybe he won from the beginning.”

“So you’re just giving...