He had tolerated many things in his marriage to Victoria—coldness, ambition, appearances—but something about this moment unsettled him in a way he could not ignore.
“Leave before I have security escort you out,” Victoria said sharply, making sure her voice carried.
Elena’s face flushed with shame. She tightened her grip on Mateo’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Let’s go.”
As they turned away, a burst of laughter followed them, sharp as broken glass.
Outside the wrought-iron gates, Elena stood at the bus stop, her son pressed against her side. The sun had begun to sink, casting long shadows across the pavement. Mateo wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, trying to be brave.
Richard followed, his pulse uneven in his chest.
“Elena,” he called gently.
She turned quickly, startled. “Mr. Whitmore… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
He barely heard her apology. Mateo had turned his head slightly, and there it was—the mark.
A small crescent, pale against his skin, curving just below his ear.