Their words cut sharper than any physical wound. Ten years in prison hadn’t freed me. The moment the world learned what I supposedly did, they turned. Made me eat off the floor, clean up after them, take beatings that tore my skin raw. Every “child killer” hurled at me made me wish I could disappear.
And even now, hearing her voice, I began to tremble. My throat burned, my hands shook.
Then Mara’s voice snapped through the tension—sharp, furious. “Chiara! You’re the murderer!”
Before I could even think, I flung a glass of water right at Chiara’s face. The liquid splashed across her, drenching her hair and coat. She gasped, staggering backward, while her daughter Lella began wailing beside her.
That was the moment the door swung open.
A tall figure stepped in, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. “What’s going on here?”
Damian. Of course. He always seemed to appear at the exact moment she needed rescuing.
The instant he entered, Chiara’s expression shifted. Her eyes reddened, and she clutched her daughter as if the world had wronged her, trembling violently.