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He looked too much like Marcelo.

Not just the eyes—the curve of his nose, the shape of his mouth, even the way he frowned. Carbon copy.

Every time I looked at him, it was like staring into a mirror, forced to confront that past that had nearly destroyed me. Sometimes fear crept in—what if Marcelo had gotten curious last night and come looking for me? What if he passed Leon on some street corner? With his sharp mind and control-freak instincts, he wouldn't miss even the smallest hint.

Leon was my life, my only anchor through countless breakdown nights in Venice. I would never let that man—that man who built his empire on blood and bones—get his devil's claws anywhere near my child.

But running wasn't my style. Four years ago I'd fled like a kicked dog. This time, I came back for Leon's future.

I put down my phone, took a deep breath, swiped away the delete option, and locked the screen.

But plans never survive first contact.

Tuesday morning, seven-thirty. Anna, the Italian nanny traveling with us, knocked on the suite door, face white as paper. She clutched her stomach, breaking out in cold sweat—acute gastroenteritis hitting so hard she could barely stand. I made the call fast, got an Uber to take her to the nearest urgent care.

By the time I got Anna settled, it was nearly eight-twenty. I looked down at Leon, already dressed, blinking up at me.

The carefully arranged childcare plan had blown apart. I couldn't leave a three-year-old alone in a hotel. Couldn't find a trustworthy daycare in half an hour.

The Hilton's first-floor luxury children's play center became my only lifeline.

"Leon." I knelt down, pulled up the hood on his little hoodie, letting the soft fabric cover his wavy dark brown hair. I cupped his round little face, more serious than I'd ever been. "Listen. Mommy has to go upstairs for a very important short meeting. You stay with Aunt Martha by the castle slide and play for half an hour, okay?"

"Can I build the tallest block tower?" The little guy blinked those clear gray-green eyes, asked in that sweet baby voice, his fluffy brown curls bouncing.

"Of course you can. But remember our deal—be a quiet, good little otter. Absolutely don't run out of the play area with strangers, understand?"

"Understand! Leon's very good!"

I slipped extra cash to Martha, the young woman working the play center, showed my passport, signed the temporary guardianship form, and triple-checked that she'd call my personal cell at the first sign of anything wrong. Only then did I grab my heavy leather briefcase and rush up to the third-floor holding area.

But my heart felt hollow.

This was Leon's first time alone with a stranger in a strange place.

Would he cry? Would he be scared?

I shook my head, forced my attention back to business.

Just two hours. He'd be fine.

The preliminary round followed competition rules—groups of five presenting in rotation.

Nine to ten a.m. The hallway speaker called the third group. "Contestants eleven through fifteen, please enter Conference Room One."

I walked in with the other four competitors. Leading them was Victoria, the blonde who'd been touching up her makeup in the hall earlier. Three other solemn-faced independent designers followed.

Behind the long judging table sat three industry veterans. Richard, president of the Council of Fashion Designers of America. Mrs. Anderson, a master pattern-maker from a high-end atelier. And Brandon, the award's executive director.

The center seat—that prominent high-backed leather chair for the head judge—sat empty.

Seeing that empty seat, I quietly exhaled. Of course. After I publicly rejected him last night, that busy Don Moretti wouldn't waste his time on basic preliminary screening.

The first four contestants' presentations proceeded smoothly.

Victoria showed an elaborate court-style evening gown. The judges politely asked a few questions about fabric drape and gave her middle-of-road scores. The other three young designers finished their explanations of construction techniques.

"Next. Number fifteen. 'Wild Rose' brand director, Ruby Caldwell." Richard adjusted his glasses and opened my portfolio.