Solana didn't just take my place in Dominick’s bed. She took my place in the world.
Over the next few years, I watched it happen through a phone screen. It was the only way I could see my children.
Solana built an entire brand out of being their mother. Her Instagram account exploded to three hundred and forty thousand followers. Every morning, there was a new picture. Soft lighting. Pastel filters. Asher in tiny designer linen shirts. Adley in white ruffled dresses, eating organic pancakes at expensive brunch spots in SoHo.
The captions were always poetry. *“Blood doesn’t make a family. Love does. Blessed to be their chosen mama.”*
Thousands of strangers left comments. *You saved those poor babies! You’re an angel, Solana!*
Dominick liked every single post.
Behind closed doors, she was doing something much worse.
I knew because one of Dominick’s old housekeepers felt guilty enough to call me once before she quit. She told me what Solana did when the cameras were off. Solana would print out cheap supermarket tabloids with blurry photos of me leaving legal aid clinics. In the pictures, my hair was a mess and my eyes were hollow. The headlines called me *“The Heavyweight’s Deranged Ex.”*
Solana would sit Asher and Adley on her lap, smoothing down their soft hair. She would point to the pictures.
“That woman says she loves you,” Solana would whisper, her voice dripping with fake sadness. “But she left you when you needed her most. She’s sick. She’s the crazy lady.”
The twins were four years old. They didn't know what a smear campaign was. They only knew what they were told by the woman who tied their shoes and kissed their scraped knees. They learned to fear my face before they even remembered it.
I spent four years fighting through family court. I sold everything I had left. I hired cheap lawyers who were terrified of Dominick’s high-priced legal team. Dominick's lawyers buried us in paperwork. They postponed hearings. They claimed I was mentally unstable and a danger to the kids.
Then, finally, a judge granted me one single supervised visit.
Two hours. Neutral ground.
The meeting was set for a Friday afternoon at Finnegan Hughes’s attorney’s office in Midtown.
I arrived forty minutes early. I wore a plain gray sweater and pulled my hair back into a clean ponytail. I bought two small stuffed bears on the subway ride over—a brown one for Asher and a cream one for Adley. My hands shook so much on the train that the plastic shopping bag rattled against my knees.
A receptionist led me into a large conference room on the thirty-fifth floor.
The room was completely modern and sterile. Gray carpet, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and a heavy, low glass coffee table in the center.
Sitting on the long leather sofa were my babies.
They looked bigger than in the photos. Asher had Dominick’s thick jawline and dark curls. Adley had my father’s wide, solemn eyes. They wore matching cream-colored sweaters.
Solana sat right between them, holding their hands. She wore a modest camel-hair coat and minimal makeup, looking like a devoted, protective mother.
Dominick stood right behind the couch. His arms were crossed over his broad chest. His face was stone.
My breath caught in my throat. Tears blurred my eyes instantly. Four years. I had missed their first steps. I had missed their first words.
“Asher... Adley...” My voice broke.
I set the shopping bag on a side table and dropped to my knees on the carpet. I wanted to be on their level. I wanted them to see I wasn't scary. I crept forward a few inches and reached both arms out toward Adley.
“It’s Mommy,” I whispered, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. “Look at you. You’re so beautiful. Come here, baby.”
Adley flinched. She shrank back into the leather cushions, gripping Solana’s arm with both hands.
Before my fingers could even brush the sleeve of Adley’s sweater, a heavy hand grabbed my left shoulder.
It was Dominick.
He didn't just pull me away. He shoved me. Hard.
The full force of a heavyweight champion hit my frail frame. I flew backward across the polished carpet. My body twisted, and my right arm slammed hard against the sharp corner of the glass coffee table.
*Crack.*
Pain tore through my elbow like a lightning bolt. The skin split wide open. Hot, thick blood instantly gushed down my forearm, dripping off my knuckles and soaking into the beige rug.
I gasped, curling into a ball on the floor, clutching my bloody arm.
Then came the scream.
Asher scrambled off the couch, his face bright red and twisted in terror. He pointed a trembling finger right at me.
“Go away, crazy lady!” Asher shrieked, his voice echoing off the glass walls. “Go away! You’re not our mom!”
Adley began to sob, hiding her face in Solana’s stomach. Solana stroked her back, giving Dominick a quiet, meaningful nod.
I lay there on the carpet, staring up at my little boy.
My son.
The baby who was pulled out of my bleeding body at thirty-one weeks. The baby whose heartbeat was the only thing that kept me alive on that operating table.
He was looking at me like I was a monster.
Dominick stood over me, his shadow blocking the ceiling lights. “Get out, Lorelai,” he said coldly. “You’re scaring them.”
The room went completely silent except for Adley’s muffled crying.
I looked at the blood pooling on the rug beneath my arm. Then I looked at Asher’s terrified, furious face.
And right there, on the floor of that Midtown office, something inside my chest stopped.
It didn't break.
Breaking hurts. Breaking means there are pieces left to ache.
This was different. It just stopped.
Like a grandfather clock when someone reaches in and rips the hands right off the face. No more ticking. No more waiting. No more hoping.
The girl who loved Dominick Taylor, the girl who begged for scrap crumbs of affection, died right there on that gray carpet.
I pushed myself up with my good arm. I didn't cry. I didn't say another word.
I walked out the door, leaving a trail of red behind me.