The quiet is so sharp it feels like it’s slicing through the petals around you.
Valentina’s accusation lingers in the air, trembling, and every guest turns toward you at once, like flowers bending toward an approaching storm. Your bouquet suddenly feels impossibly heavy, as though each white rose has absorbed the weight of betrayal. Diego’s fingers tighten around yours, steady and warm, a borrowed heartbeat anchoring you.
You try to swallow, but the knot in your throat refuses to move.
Because the most painful part isn’t her shouting. It’s the brief, terrifying moment when you wonder if the room might actually believe her.
Valentina steps closer, chin raised, tears perfectly poised at the edge of her lashes. She has always known how to perform innocence, even when she’s the one who struck the match. Her rounded belly presses against satin, a living punctuation mark to her version of events.
“You did this to hurt me,” she says, her voice cracking in precisely the way that makes people want to protect her. “You’ve always needed to be the one chosen.”
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