Todos los capítulos de Signed Sealed and Divorced. The CEO’s biggest regret: Capítulo 21 - Capítulo 30

I wake up on the couch with a stiff neck and a blanket I don’t remember pulling over myself. The last thing I remember is Sophia’s hand on my back while I tried not to drown in my own tears. She must have moved me, covered me up like she used to when we were kids. I press my palm into my eyes for a second before I push myself up.I find her in the kitchen, humming under her breath while she flips eggs in a pan. The smell of toast and coffee wraps around me like a safer blanket than the one I left on the couch. Leo sits at the counter, swinging his feet, stuffing bits of scrambled egg into his mouth with sticky fingers. Alina’s next to him, dramatic as ever, demanding extra syrup for her waffles like it’s a negotiation.I stand there in the doorway for a moment longer than I mean to, just watching them. Sophia tilts her head, crossing her eyes and puffing out her cheeks until Leo giggles so hard he almost chokes. Alina claps like she’s got her own private circus. For a second, I let my

The restaurant is one of those places that pretends it’s not trying too hard — reclaimed wood beams, Edison bulbs strung across a glass ceiling like constellations caught in a net, servers dressed like they just stumbled off a Brooklyn food truck.Layla stays close as we walk in. Her arm brushes mine every few steps, a quiet anchor I’m not sure I deserve. I can feel my spine locking itself straighter the moment we step into the main dining room — all warm brick and flickering candlelight, laughter bouncing off wine glasses that cost more than my first car.I clock the table immediately. Director Chace— big voice, big laugh, big belly under a crisp linen shirt. Rumor says he’s an executioner on set but practically hugs people to death when there’s free-flowing wine. He spots me and his grin blooms like a spotlight.Leo’s here too. Of course he is. Holding court at the far end like he’s been crowned prince of this canyon bistro. His shirt is open at the throat, tan deeper than it has a

The morning sun rises without warning. I pick up my phone and I hit video call before I can talk myself out of it. She answers on the third ring. Alina’s face fills the screen first — messy curls, sleepy eyes. My daughter’s voice slices straight through my ribs. “Mommy?” “Hey, baby.” My voice cracks. I clear it fast. “Did you brush your teeth?” It’s night for them. She nods solemnly, mouth already twisting into a pout. “You didn’t call during the day, I waited.” I swallow the lump that tries to crawl up my throat. “I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mommy had… work.” Sophia’s face drifts into frame behind her, eyes tired but soft. There’s a question in her look — are you okay? I can’t answer her with words, so I just smile. It probably looks wrong. Alina chatters about her new doll, about the warm milk Auntie Sophia made her, about how the neighbor’s cat had babies and can she have one, please? Each word is a tiny knife I press deeper into my own skin. I nod. I promise. I prom

The day begins like a bruise — tender and slow to surface.For once, I don’t have to paint my face in war colors or fight the desert wind to deliver monologues drenched in betrayal. It’s a non-shooting day. For me, at least. Everyone else still buzzes like bees around sugar.I stay wrapped in my robe far too long, my phone pressed to my chest like a heartbeat substitute.When I finally call, it’s deep night back home.Alina answers instantly.Her curls are tied in a lopsided puff, her eyes half-lidded with sleep. “Mommy,” she whispers, the word clinging to her tongue like it’s sacred.“Hi, baby.” My voice trembles. I don’t even try to hide it this time.She’s sitting on Sophia’s lap, a blanket over both of them. The screen is dim but soft — the kind of safe glow I haven’t felt in months.“You didn’t forget today,” she says, her smile curling at the corners like sunrise. “I waited.”Sophia gives me a look — warm and watchful. “She’s been holding the phone like a good luck charm all eve

The room smells like too many perfumes and expensive disappointment.I barely register the way the wine soaks into my dress—sticky, crimson, clinging like shame to silk—because I’m still tasting the aftershock of what the waitress just whispered to me. My hand reacts before my mind can catch up.“Maybe your kids are lucky you’re never around. At least they won’t grow up as messed up as you.”She says it softly, almost like a secret meant only for me, but it slices clean through the noise. The words settle just deep enough to bleed.And I slap her. Hard. The kind of slap that echoes in memory long after it fades in sound.I don’t care to know who she is, or why she said what she did, or how she even knew I had children. My body simply moves. Because those words… no one has the right to wield them. Not even me.No threats. No words. I walk away.But the room falls into that dangerous kind of silence—the kind that holds its breath, waiting to devour the next sentence, the next movement,