Chapter 14 - The Recording Wendy Couldn’t Explain
The recording was almost two years old.
Sabrina had found it while organizing archived files.
A voicemail.
Wendy’s voice.
Luca, if they won’t pay the consulting fee, give the contract to someone who will. You’re the one with leverage. Stop acting guilty for using it.
That was bad.
Then came the second part.
And keep Jessica’s name where it is. If anyone asks questions, she’s the accountant. People will believe she structured it.
I listened once.
Then stopped.
Dad looked furious.
Rachel looked sick.
I felt strangely empty.
Even after Wendy’s apology, this existed.
People can regret what they did.
Regret does not erase evidence.
Prosecutors already had enough.
The recording simply clarified intent.
Wendy’s attorney requested a meeting.
I refused.
There was nothing left to discuss.
Instead, I focused on Leo.
He crawled at eight months.
Dad reacted like he had won an Olympic medal.
“He moved three feet.”
“He crawled.”
“Three feet independently.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Exceptional.”
“He’s a baby.”
“An exceptional baby.”
I filmed Dad installing childproof locks while complaining that they were “hostile to adults.”
Life continued.
That surprised me most.
Scandal feels enormous when you are inside it.
But babies still need breakfast.
Laundry still accumulates.
The sun still rises.
Your heart learns to live around what hurt it.
Sentencing approached.
Luca asked me to submit a victim impact statement.
I refused initially.
Then reconsidered.
Not because I wanted a harsher sentence.
Not because I wanted leniency.
Because I wanted the truth recorded.
I wrote:
Luca’s financial conduct affected me in ways numbers cannot fully capture. He used my professional reputation and forged my identity, which made me question my own judgment. His personal betrayals caused separate harm. However, he remains the father of our son. I hope any sentence recognizes both accountability and the possibility that a person can become better than the worst things he has done. I do not request punishment or mercy. I request only that the court see the full picture.
Dad read it.
“You’re kinder than I would be.”
“That’s why you’re not writing it.”
“Fair.”
The court sentenced Luca to a custodial term shorter than prosecutors initially sought, partly because of his cooperation and restitution.
Wendy received probation with home confinement and substantial financial penalties due to her age, lesser role, and cooperation after her plea.
I felt no triumph.
Luca was led away.
Before leaving, he looked back.
Not at me.
At Leo’s photograph in my hand.
I raised it slightly.
His eyes closed.
Then he left.
That night, I cried.
Dad found me in the kitchen.
“Why?”
“Because this is sad.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want him back.”
“I know.”
“I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want Leo’s father in prison.”
Dad sat beside me.
“Multiple truths can exist together.”
I leaned against his shoulder.
That had become one of the greatest lessons of adulthood.
Someone can hurt you and still be human.
You can forgive without returning.
You can love what existed and still end what became unsafe.
You can mourn consequences you believe are deserved.
Months later, Luca began writing letters to Leo.
Not to me.
To him.
Rachel reviewed them initially.
They were simple.
Today I learned how to make bread. When you’re older, I hope we can make a terrible loaf together.
Another:
Your mom sent a picture of you standing. You look very serious about furniture.
Another:
I’m sorry there are days I cannot be there. That is because of choices I made, not because of anything you did.
That line made me stop.
Accountability.
No blame.
I saved every letter.
Not for Luca.
For Leo.
One day, he would ask.
He deserved truth without poison.
Then came the divorce hearing.
It should have been simple.
Property issues settled.
Custody framework agreed.
No contested support.
But the judge asked one unexpected question.
“Mrs. Romano, are you certain you wish to restore your prior surname?”
I opened my mouth.
Then paused.
Prior surname.
Carter?
Sterling?
For years, I had run from one name and hidden behind another.
The question suddenly felt larger than paperwork.
I looked at Dad.
Then at Leo.
May you like
And I knew exactly who I wanted to be.
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