You looked at your father and understood that he was not confused. He knew who had caused the harm. He simply wanted the easiest person to pressure to absorb it.
You shifted Mateo higher against your hip.
“No.”
His face hardened. “Elena.”
“No,” you said. “I will not apologize for bleeding on the floor because the person holding the knife feels embarrassed.”
Your father recoiled.
Julian looked at you with something like awe.
Your mother hissed, “Dramatic as always.”
You turned toward her.
“Maybe. But tonight everyone finally saw why.”
Then you walked out.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Walking.
Julian’s driver met you at the entrance with an umbrella. Mateo fell asleep in the back seat within minutes, still clutching your hand. You sat beside him, watching city lights smear through the rain-streaked window.
Your phone began buzzing before you reached your apartment.
Your mother.
Isabella.
Your aunt.
Unknown numbers.
