Your mother’s face flushed. “Elena, don’t make a scene.”
You looked around the ballroom.
“The scene already happened. I’m just telling the truth after it.”
Julian lowered the microphone, letting your voice carry on its own.
Mateo wiped his face with his sleeve. “Mommy, can we go?”
That question steadied you.
“Yes, baby.”
Isabella suddenly panicked.
Not because you were leaving.
Because Julian was watching you leave.
She turned to him. “Julian, please. Don’t do this. I was nervous. I said something stupid. You know I love you.”
His face did not soften.
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
“You love me,” he said, “but you mocked a nurse who works twelve-hour shifts to raise her son alone. You mocked a child for not having a father. You let your mother call your sister damaged. You laughed while Mateo cried.”
Isabella looked around desperately. “Someone say something.”
No one did.
