“You don’t know anything about me,” he said, though his voice lacked force.
Sofia knelt in front of him. “There was fire,” she said softly. “And you think it should have been you who didn’t come home.”
His associates stared at her.
“Stop,” he whispered.
“Your body remembers what your mind won’t say,” she continued. “You’re holding guilt like it’s something you deserve.”
Rosa hesitated, then gently placed her hands on Nathaniel’s shoulders. Sofia rested her palms on his knees, not theatrically — just steady.
The courtyard seemed suspended outside of time.
Nathaniel’s composure fractured. A raw sob tore from him, the kind he had buried beneath contracts and acquisitions.
“I should have let him fly,” he choked. “I should have waited.”
“Then forgive yourself,” Sofia urged. “You can’t keep standing in the crash.”
The silence pressed in.
Finally, trembling, he whispered, “I forgive myself.”
It wasn’t dramatic. No flash of light, no sudden applause. Just warmth spreading through muscles long distant. His right foot twitched.
Derrick dropped his glass.
Nathaniel stared, disbelieving. He focused not on forcing movement, but on releasing the tight knot of blame he had wrapped around himself for years.