Ethan was distraught. Too stunned to speak. This woman dared to touch him. He pushed her aside, his face saying it all. "Don't you dare call yourself my mother. Not after you abandoned me so easily. You were just a vessel, a womb I grew in—that's all you ever were. She's my mother. The only one I will ever call that," he said, pointing at Delilah, who stood beside the woman.
"Ethan! Don't speak to her that way. We never raised you to be disrespectful. Apologize right now," Delilah's voice trembled with emotion, her eyes brimming with tears.
"It's okay, Delilah. I understand. He's angry," that woman tried to calm his mother.
"Angry? You 're wrong. I'm not angry. I don 't get angry. I just get disappointed." His voice was cold. "Now, please leave. I don't want to see you or talk to you ever again."
He turned away, folding his arms over his chest. The woman slowly turned to Delilah. "It's okay. It was my mistake. I came too soon. I'll come back later when things have cooled down. Take care, Delilah. And send my regards to Bruno," she said softly before heading to the door.
Just before stepping out, she looked back at him. "I made a huge mistake not explaining why I did what I did. But believe me, not a single day has passed where I haven 't regretted not raising you myself." Then, without waiting for a response, she walked to her car and drove away. "Ethan, come and have some breakfast," Delilah said gently.
He turned to her and sat down at the table—across from the chair where that woman had just been sitting. Delilah placed an array of pastries in front of him—filled croissants, sfogliatelle, and maritozzi—along with a plate of nasi lemak. "You made nasi lemak?" he asked, surprised.
"Of course. I know it's your favorite. And I doubt Milan has it," she smiled.
Without another word, he ate everything, savoring the familiar flavors. His mother once told him he was Italian-Malaysian—his birth mother, a Malaysian woman, and his father, an Italian. A fact he never cared to acknowledge until now.
After breakfast, he stepped outside, looking at the garden. It was nice—but not nearly as breathtaking as Mr. Stark's therapeutic park, the one designed by Ava Sinclair.
Yes! A sudden idea hit him. 'I'll ask Ava Sinclair to design my father's garden. That way, I'll have an excuse to spend more time with her.' His fingers hovered over his phone, ready to type a message—then he stopped.
'What the hell is wrong with me?' Why did he even want to spend more time with her? He slipped his phone back into his pocket and let his thoughts wander to their last meeting. She was the first person who had ever dared to cut him off mid-sentence. No one ever did that to him. 'What kind of spell did you put me under, Ava?'
After taking a shower, he called Luca. His assistant had stayed in a hotel nearby while he spent the night at his parents' house. Ethan ordered his driver to pick up Luca in an hour—then pick him up as well. He had a meeting in Milan with Laurent, the developer handling the San Pietro Cusico project.
The site has been receiving a wave of complaints lately. Normally, projects involving Laurent Fabiosa ran smoothly, but lately, issues had been piling up. Ethan needed to step in before things got worse. "You 're leaving already?" His father walked into the house, arms full of groceries.
Ethan felt a pang of guilt. Adjusting his khaki polo shirt, he said, "I'm sorry, Father. There are some issues I need to deal with. But I promise I'll visit more often."
He placed a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder. His father's expression softened, but there was sadness in his eyes.
Ethan hugged him tightly. His mother, however, was crying. That made leaving even harder. He pulled her into a warm embrace and kissed her forehead.
"It's okay. I'll come back soon. And maybe... I'll bring a potential wife," he teased, attempting to lighten the mood. Delilah's eyes widened. "Ethan!"
He chuckled, waving goodbye before stepping into his Maybach and heading straight to the airport. As the car moved, he checked his phone and saw an email from Ava's Impressions Firm.
The subject line read:
Luxe Haven Development – Penthouse Inspection & Cost Calculation.
Dear Luxe Haven Development,
On behalf of my staff, I will be sending Alessia Pesci and Milo Amato to conduct measurements and inspections to calculate the renovation costs. If all necessary information is acquired, work will begin next week.
Regards,
Ava Sinclair
His eyes lingered on her name. 'When am I going to see her again?' Maybe their paths would cross during the renovation. 'I'd like that.'
Without hesitation, he typed a one-word reply: Proceed.
Locking his phone, he slipped it into his jacket pocket— only to feel something else inside. A small velvet box.
He exhaled sharply. Before he left for his flight, his mother had given it to him. "This ring belonged to my great-grandmother. It was passed down to my grandmother, then my mother, and now... to me."
"Ethan, when you find the one—the woman who makes you think of a future together, the one who makes life feel meaningless without her, the one who challenges you in ways no one else does—give her this ring. And cherish her. Make her your everything." He closed his eyes briefly, gripping the box tighter.
Yet, for the first time in his life, the thought of a future with someone didn't seem so impossible.