My hands trembled as I opened the refrigerator. The light inside felt too bright, too sharp, and without warning a wave of dizziness hit—violent and disorienting. The room tilted. My ears rang. I reached for the counter but my fingers met air. The floor rushed up and the impact knocked the breath out of me. Pain exploded through my hip and thigh, and I curled instinctively, both arms wrapped around my stomach, terror hammering in my chest.
“What an exaggeration,” Raúl growled from the table. “Get up!”
I tried. My body didn’t respond. Víctor sighed like I’d inconvenienced him, then walked to the corner of the kitchen. I saw the stick before my mind could fully accept it—thick, wooden, familiar, something he’d used before for what he liked to call “discipline.” “I told you to get up!” he roared, and the blow landed on my thigh. White-hot pain ripped through me and I screamed, curling tighter, shielding my belly with everything I had. Tears poured down my face—uncontrollable, humiliating—while Helena laughed. “She deserves it,” she said. “Hit her again. She needs to learn her place.”
“Please,” I sobbed, “please—the baby—”