At first she was invisible. A whisper beneath the table.
Then a small movement near a chair.
No one noticed—
until Roberto stepped back nervously and almost stepped on her.
He looked down, his face twisting in disgust.
“What the hell…? Where did that come from?”
That.
Hearing his harsh tone, Bia shrank back. She recognized men like him—loud voices, sudden movements, danger in the air. Roberto flicked his foot like shooing an animal.
“Out. Go away. Get out!”
Bia’s lip trembled. Then the cry burst out—loud, desperate, as if the whole night had collapsed into her chest.
The directors stood in confusion. Arthur turned—
And at that exact moment, Amanda burst through the service door like a mother running through fire.
She didn’t see power or suits or money. She saw her daughter on the floor… and a man treating her like trash.
Something broke inside her.
“Don’t touch her!” she screamed, lifting Bia in one motion.
The baby clung to her neck as if the world were ending. Amanda rocked her, kissing her head.
“I’m here, my love. No one will hurt you.”
Roberto finally recognized her.
“You… the scammer,” he spat. “How much do you want this time?”
Amanda looked at him, eyes burning, no tears yet.
“I don’t want anything from you. I never did. I just wanted you to take responsibility for your daughter.”
“That thing isn’t mine,” Roberto growled. “You set it all up to trap me.”
Shame turned into dignity.
“You promised you’d be there. Then you disappeared. Blocked me. Threatened me. When I sent you her photo, you blocked me again. When I asked for a DNA test, you said I was crazy.”
The words fell heavy. No one knew where to look.
Arthur watched Bia. The curls. The eyes. The shape of her nose. Something felt painfully familiar.
“How old is she?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
“A year and a half,” Amanda said.
Arthur calculated quickly. His gaze hardened. He looked at Roberto, then at the baby’s neck.
“What’s her name?”
“Beatriz… but I call her Bia.”
Arthur stepped closer. Bia, still crying, went quiet. As if something about him didn’t signal danger. Arthur looked closely—and saw it.
At the base of her neck: a V-shaped birthmark.
The world stopped.
Arthur had the same one. So did his father. His grandfather. A rare family mark.
His hands trembled.
“Roberto,” he said softly—deadly soft. “Come here. Look.”
Roberto did—and went pale.
“No…”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “The Albuquerque mark.”