“You are misunderstanding everything,” he insisted, forcing a brittle smile. “Juliette has not been entirely stable lately, and we have all been attempting to support her through difficult episodes.”
I neither frowned nor raised my voice.
“Support,” I repeated softly, “rarely includes forcing someone to sleep beside a doorway like discarded furniture.”
Without waiting for further justification, I knelt beside Juliette, placing a steady hand upon her shoulder. Up close, the damage revealed itself with brutal clarity, her frame alarmingly thin, her wrists fragile, her body reflecting prolonged erosion rather than temporary distress.
“I am here,” I told her gently. “This situation ends tonight, and you will never sleep on the floor again.”
She blinked slowly, confusion yielding gradually to fragile relief, before clinging to me with exhaustion that spoke of months spent shrinking beneath invisible weight.
Peter cleared his throat sharply. “I am her husband,” he declared defensively. “I have rights within this household.”
“You had responsibilities,” I replied quietly. “Every single one has been violated.”
From my portfolio, I withdrew a folded document.