“That’s it,” she said, not with triumph, but grim certainty. “The second one.”
Viven’s voice snapped, sharp and bare.
“Put that down.”
No softness.
No careful concern.
The room went still as if even the chandelier had stopped breathing.
Elena’s shoulders caved inward, her gaze dropping like she expected the ceiling to fall for daring to move her toe.
Fernando held the jar up.
White powder clung to the glass.
Innocent-looking.
Terrifying.
“So,” he said, voice trembling with rage, “this is what you’ve been feeding my child.”
Viven took a step forward.
Fernando backed away, keeping his body between her and Elena.
The protective instinct arrived late, but it arrived like a storm.
Immani’s eyes flicked to the counter, to the first unmarked vial, to the half-full glass of orange juice.
“You hid it behind spice boxes,” Immani said quietly. “And when you ran out, you kept more in the freezer. Because cold keeps it dry. Keeps it ready.”
Viven’s face tightened. The mask tried to hold, but it couldn’t keep up with the truth.
“You’re twisting everything,” she hissed, but her gaze kept darting toward the jar, toward the door, like a cornered animal calculating distance.