My words struck him hard.
For a moment, I thought he would respond with anger. The old Blake would have. The wounded, prideful man from the plane would have retaliated with something deliberately cruel.
Instead, he simply stared at the car.
At the shadowy silhouettes of three little boys inside.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost unrecognizable.
“¿Qué hago?”
That question broke something inside me more than his cruelty ever had.
Because once, a long time ago, I had loved him.
Not the billionaire. Not the man on magazine covers. Not the empire builder.
Blake.
El joven ingeniero que se olvidó de comer mientras trabajaba en problemas imposibles. El hombre que lloró la primera vez que uno de nuestros prototipos restauró la energía a un pueblo azotado por la tormenta. El esposo que solía besar mi frente y decirme que nuestros hijos heredarían mi bondad y su terquedad.
