02

Chapter 02

Third Person's POV

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Valencia mansion's grand foyer, its golden rays illuminating the marble floors that Sonia had once walked as the lady of the house. Now, she stood there as a stranger—an unwelcome intruder in what had been her home for eight years. The familiar scent of jasmine from the garden she had lovingly tended seemed foreign now, tainted by the bitter taste of betrayal that filled her mouth.

Victor Valencia emerged from his study with the measured gait of a man who had rehearsed this moment countless times in his mind. His six-foot frame was impeccably dressed in a navy Tom Ford suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, his face a mask of cold indifference. In his manicured hands, he carried a manila folder—the legal documents that would officially erase their marriage, their shared dreams, their life together.

"I think... it would be best if we got a divorce," Victor began, his voice carrying the clinical detachment of a surgeon delivering a terminal diagnosis. Each word was carefully chosen, measured, designed to cut cleanly through whatever remained of their bond. "I can't stand to look at you anymore, and Vladimir is terrified of you. I'm sorry, Sonia, but I don't want my family to turn against me completely and take the company away from me. I need the company for Vladimir."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. This was the man who had once whispered poetry into her ear during their honeymoon in Paris, who had promised before God and hundreds of witnesses that he would love her in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. The same man who now spoke of their marriage as if it were a failed business venture to be liquidated.

"W-What? Divorce? Victor! You can't do this to me," Sonia whispered, her voice breaking like fragile glass. Tears began to stream down her face—both the unmarked side and the scarred side, salt stinging the damaged tissue that would forever mark her sacrifice.

For years, she hadn't seen her husband's face after he had locked her away in their bedroom, treating her like a prisoner in her own home. After months of isolation, of speaking only to the walls, of watching the world through her window like a caged bird, this was how he chose to greet her—with divorce papers and cold rejection.

Victor held out the legal documents, his expression unchanged. The papers rustled softly in the silence, a sound that seemed to echo through the vast foyer like thunder. Sonia immediately refused to take them, backing away as if they were poisoned.

Instead, she did something that would have been unthinkable for the proud, successful model she had once been—she fell to her knees on the cold marble floor, her hands reaching desperately for the hem of his expensive trousers.

"I'm begging you, Victor. Please don't leave me. I need you now," she pleaded, her voice raw with desperation. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of his pants as if holding onto the last thread of their life together. "You promised me. You promised you would never hurt me, never leave me."

Victor recoiled from her touch as if she were diseased, his face contorting with visible disgust. The man who had once traced every inch of her skin with reverent fingers now couldn't bear even the brush of her hand against his clothes. He stepped back, creating distance between them that felt like an ocean.

"How low will you stoop, Sonia?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. The question was designed to wound, to strip away whatever remained of her dignity.

Sonia looked up at him from her position on the floor, her eyes—still beautiful, still the same warm brown that had captivated him in high school—brimming with desperate hope and confusion.

"Can't you see yourself now, Sonia?" Victor continued, his voice gaining strength with each cruel word. "Don't you understand what you've become?"

"Victor, why are you like this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. "No matter what I look like, I'm still your wife. You promised to love me. Why—why do you have to do this, Victor?"

The wedding vows she quoted seemed to echo in the vast space, ghosts of promises made in a flower-filled church before hundreds of witnesses. Victor's expression hardened further, his jaw clenching as he looked down at her with something approaching hatred.

"You promised me, Victor. You promised you wouldn't hurt me or leave me. Victor, why?" she continued, her voice breaking on each word.

Victor's face darkened, and he turned away briefly before facing her again with renewed cruelty. "I only liked you because you were beautiful," he said, each word delivered with surgical precision. "Whenever I was with you, other men envied me. You were a trophy, Sonia—something beautiful to display."

He clenched his fists, his knuckles white with tension. "But look at yourself now! If I want a divorce now, it's because of you!"

The confession hit Sonia like a physical blow. Her entire body began to tremble as the full weight of his words sank in. All those years of marriage, of shared intimacies, of whispered endearments and passionate nights—all of it had been nothing more than a man's vanity, a shallow appreciation for surface beauty that could be destroyed in an instant.

How had she loved this man? How had she mistaken his superficial attraction for genuine love?

"My fault?" she cried, her voice rising to a desperate crescendo that seemed to bounce off the marble walls and crystal chandeliers. "Are you saying this is my fault? I didn't want what happened to me, Victor. Are you saying I should have just left the car and let our son die inside? Victor! You know why I look like this! I saved our child!"

The memory crashed over her like a tidal wave—the acrid smell of smoke, the sound of metal twisting and glass shattering, Vladimir's terrified screams from the backseat of their overturned Mercedes. She had pulled him from the wreckage just as the gas tank exploded, her body shielding his from the flames that had claimed half her face and ended her modeling career in a single, horrific instant.

Victor clenched his fists tighter but remained silent, his silence more damning than any accusation. His refusal to acknowledge her sacrifice, to recognize the heroism in her actions, was perhaps the cruelest cut of all.

Sonia couldn't believe what she was hearing. The man she had loved with every fiber of her being was standing there, unmoved by her pain, untouched by her sacrifice.

"I'll sign this divorce paper," she said, forcing herself to stand on trembling legs, "but give me back my son."

She knew that even if she collapsed right there, even if she begged until her voice gave out, Victor's mind wouldn't change. She understood now that their entire relationship had been built on lies—she couldn't continue living in this delusion any longer.

"Who told you that you get to make decisions?" The voice cut through the air like a whip. Doña Elena Valencia, Victor's mother, swept into the foyer with the imperious presence of a queen entering her throne room. Behind her walked Themarie—beautiful, unmarked Themarie with her perfect smile and calculating eyes.

Sonia's former best friend had the grace to look shocked upon seeing her, asking with feigned concern if she was alright.

"You bitch," Sonia snarled, her voice taking on a dangerous edge as her eyes fixed on Themarie. "You're going to steal Victor too. You really won't stop with your scheming, will you?"

Victor immediately stepped between them. "Stop it, Sonia. Leave Themarie out of this—this is between us. You have nothing else to do but sign those papers. Once you sign them, Sonia, I'll pay you—it will be enough for you to support yourself for as long as you want."

The words hit Sonia like a slap across the face. After eight years of marriage, after giving him a son, after sacrificing her face and career to save their child, he was offering to pay her off like a dismissed employee.

"I'm not your employee, Victor. I'm your wife. I won't sign anything until you guarantee that you'll give me back my son!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the mansion.

Doña Elena's face twisted with rage. She grabbed Sonia's arm with surprising strength for a woman in her eighties, her manicured nails digging into flesh as she dragged her toward the front door.

"You're taking nothing with you," the older woman hissed. "You're the only one leaving, and don't you dare come back."

The massive iron gates of the Valencia estate slammed shut behind Sonia with a finality that seemed to echo through her very soul. She pressed herself against the cold metal, her fingers wrapping around the ornate bars as she screamed for her son.

"You monsters! Give me back my Vlad! Give me back my son!" she cried, her voice raw with anguish.

From inside the estate, she could see eight-year-old Vladimir emerge from the house, his small face filled with confusion as he looked toward the gates. Victor quickly appeared behind him, along with Themarie, both of them guiding the boy back inside.

"Mommy?" Vladimir called out, his young voice carrying across the manicured lawn.

The single word shattered what remained of Sonia's heart. Her baby—her precious boy—was looking at her with recognition, with love, with the innocent trust of a child who didn't understand why his mother was being kept away from him.

Victor quickly turned the boy around, telling him firmly that she wasn't his mommy, that he needed to come inside.

"You monster, Victor! Give me back my son! Vlad!" Sonia screamed, her voice breaking as she watched her child being led away from her.

Vladimir began to cry, his small body shaking with sobs as Victor carried him into the mansion. The sight of her son's tears, the sound of his distress, was more than Sonia could bear.

---

Later that evening

Sonia stood before a fountain in the center of a public park, her reflection wavering in the rippling water. The bandages covering half her face seemed to glow white in the fading daylight, a stark reminder of everything she had lost. Tears flowed continuously down her cheeks—a river of grief that seemed to have no end.

"You monster, Victor. Give me back my son," she whispered to her fractured reflection, then collapsed to her knees beside the fountain, her fingers gripping the concrete edge so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Her sobs echoed in the empty park, the sound of a woman whose world had been completely destroyed. The Valencia family hadn't just taken her son—they had thrown her out of the mansion with nothing. No money, no belongings, no place to go. She didn't even know where she would sleep that night, how she would eat, how she would survive.

The frustration and helplessness overwhelmed her, making it difficult to breathe. She had lost everything—her husband, her child, her home, her identity, her future.

"Are you sick?"

The small voice startled her from her despair. Sonia looked up through her tears to see a boy of about 7 years old standing before her, his bright blue eyes filled with concern rather than the fear or disgust she had grown accustomed to seeing in people's faces.

Behind him, other children were backing away, their voices rising in frightened whispers.

"France! Run! She's a monster!" they shrieked, their words like daggers to Sonia's already wounded heart.

But the boy—France—didn't run. Instead, he stepped closer, pulling a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her with the solemn gravity of someone much older than his years.

Sonia stood and stepped back, afraid that if she moved too close, he too would flee in terror like all the others.

"Mommy, I've been waiting for you for so long. You were here all along. Let's go home. Daddy and I miss you so much," the boy said, his voice filled with wonder and recognition.

Sonia was shocked. This child—this beautiful, innocent child—was calling her mommy, looking at her scarred face and seeing not a monster, but a mother.

She started to leave, but France chased after her, grabbing the hem of her jacket with small but determined hands.

"France! What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you not to leave school without me picking you up?"

The voice was deep, authoritative, and tinged with panic. Sonia turned to see a man striding toward them, his face a study in controlled fear. He was tall, probably in his early thirties, with dark hair and the kind of classically handsome features that belonged on movie screens.

Recognition hit her immediately. This was Fabian Martinez—the famous actor whose face graced billboards across the city, whose movies broke box office records, whose personal life was dissected by tabloids with surgical precision.

The man stopped when he heard his son's words.

"Daddy, I found Mommy," France announced with pure joy.

Their eyes met across the small distance between them. Fabian immediately scooped up his son, his protective instincts overriding everything else.

"She's not your mommy," he said gently but firmly, turning to leave.

But France erupted in protest, screaming "Mommy!" at the top of his lungs. He began hitting his father with small fists, his anger so intense it was almost frightening for such a young child. Fabian muttered a curse under his breath, clearly struggling with his son's violent reaction.

France broke free from his father's grasp and ran to Sonia, throwing his small arms around her waist with desperate strength.

"Mommy, don't leave me again. Promise me I'll be a good boy. I'll behave from now on. Mommy, please, don't leave me," the child pleaded, his voice breaking with emotion.

In that instant, Sonia found herself with a son—a child who claimed her as his own, who looked at her with the same desperate love she felt for Vladimir. France refused to go home without her, clinging to her as if she were his lifeline.

Fabian ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident as he glanced around at the growing crowd of onlookers. People were starting to stare, phones were coming out, and Sonia could see the moment he realized what a media circus this could become.

"Could you... could you come with us?" he asked quietly, his voice tight with desperation. He moved to shield her face from potential cameras. "I'll pay you a large sum of money. I just need to get my son home."

The situation was becoming chaotic. If reporters arrived, if more people gathered, the attention drawn to her would be overwhelming. But looking down at the child in her arms, at his tear-streaked face and pleading blue eyes, Sonia felt something she hadn't experienced in months—the feeling of being needed, of being wanted.

In the presence of these two strangers, even if only for a few minutes, she had forgotten about her shameless ex-husband and his entire cruel family.

"O-Okay, I'll come with you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Sonia didn't know if they were members of a cult or a criminal syndicate, and she didn't care. Her life had lost all value—her son was gone, her career destroyed, her family shattered. Nothing mattered anymore.

But perhaps, in helping this broken child, she could find some small purpose in the wreckage of her existence.

"Mommy, let's go home," France said, his small hand slipping into hers with complete trust.

As they walked toward Fabian's waiting car, Sonia caught sight of her reflection in the tinted windows—half-beautiful, half-monster, completely lost. But for the first time in months, she wasn't alone.

Perhaps this was how new lives began—not with fanfare or celebration, but with small acts of kindness between broken souls, with the simple words of a child who saw past scars to the heart beneath.

"Let's go home," she whispered back, not knowing that those three words would change everything.