Moscow Dykes의 작품

Pedri stares at his phone, Alessia's name glowing on the screen. He doesn't answer. He lets it ring until it stops. Then he shoves it back into his pocket."She can wait," he says. "You're more important right now."Aitana blinks. In three years of marriage, Pedri has never once told her she is important. Not in words. Not in actions. The statement feels like a foreign language."Don't do that," she says quietly. "Don't pretend to care just because my father is dying."His jaw tightens. "I'm not pretending.""Then what are you doing, Pedri? What do you actually want from me?"The question hangs between them, sharp as a blade. Pedri opens his mouth to answer, but before he can speak, a nurse emerges from the ICU. Her face is grim."Miss Bonmatí? The doctor needs to speak with you. It's about your father's condition."Aitana's heart drops. "Is he—is he okay?"The nurse hesitates. "Please come with me. The doctor will explain everything."Pedri reaches for her hand. "I'll come with you."

Aitana doesn't sleep. She lies in bed, her body still humming from Pedri's kiss, her mind racing in endless circles. The photograph of Alessia sits on the nightstand, face up, accusing. The divorce papers are still scattered on the study floor, half-signed, abandoned.At dawn, she hears Chloe moving in the kitchen. The smell of coffee drifts through the penthouse. For a moment, she could almost pretend this is a normal morning. But nothing about her life is normal anymore.She swings her legs out of bed and walks to the window. The city stretches below, grey and indifferent. Somewhere out there, her father is living his quiet life, unaware that his daughter is dying. She should call him. She should tell him about the cancer. But how do you tell the only person who ever loved you that you're running out of time?A knock sounds at the bedroom door."Aitana?" Chloe's voice is soft, hesitant. "Can I come in?"She doesn't answer. Chloe comes in anyway, carrying two mugs of coffee. She sets

Aitana stares at the photograph until her vision blurs. Alessia's face smiles up at her from the glossy paper, the emerald necklace glittering at her throat like a victory trophy. And on the back, in handwriting that looks like Pedri's, those four words: Soon, she'll be gone.The lullaby has stopped. The nursery is silent. But Aitana's heart pounds so loudly she is sure the whole building can hear it.She doesn't sleep that night.At dawn, she showers, dresses in a simple grey coat, and walks out of the penthouse without waking Chloe. The city is just beginning to stir. Delivery trucks grumble at curbs. A street sweeper hisses past. The air smells like cold metal and exhaust.She walks to Madison Avenue. She needs a simple repair on an old silver chain—a task so ordinary it almost feels like normal life. The bell chimes as she steps into the jewelry boutique. The air is thick with perfume and polished wood.And then she sees her.Alessia Russo stands by the main display case. She wear

The person standing in the doorway is not a stranger. But she is not someone Aitana ever expected to see again.Chloe Parker stands in the hallway. Her mother. The woman who walked out twenty years ago, leaving an eight-year-old girl sobbing on a cold Brooklyn sidewalk. She is older now—silver streaks in her dark hair, soft lines around her eyes—but the face is the same. Elegant. Composed. Regretful."Aitana," Chloe whispers. "I know I have no right to be here. But I had to see you."Aitana's throat closes. The word Mom rises but gets stuck, tangled with twenty years of abandonment and longing. She stands frozen, her hand still on the door handle, her knuckles white."I shouldn't have come without calling," Chloe continues, her voice trembling. "But I didn't know if you would answer. I've been overseas for so long. I didn't know you were married. I didn't know—"She stops. Her eyes travel past Aitana, into the penthouse. Her expression shifts from nervous to confused.Pedri stands in

On the day Aitana Bonmatí is diagnosed with stomach cancer, her husband, Pedri Miller, is across the city taking care of his first love's children.The hospital corridor smells of antiseptic and stale coffee. Aitana sits on a hard plastic chair, her slender fingers wrapped so tightly around the strap of her sling bag that the leather bites into her palm. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on pale linoleum. She does not fidget. She does not cry. She simply waits, her petite face white as bone.Footsteps approach. Keith Rogers emerges from the pathology lab, his white coat unbuttoned, a manila folder clutched in his hand. His grey eyes are tired, and they give everything away before he speaks."Aitana, the results are out." He lifts the folder. "It's a 3A malignant gastric tumor. If the surgery is successful, the five-year survival rate is between fifteen and thirty percent."The words hit like stones dropped into still water. Fifteen to thirty percent. She turns th