Viven’s smile stayed in place, but it thinned. “It’s her supplement. The one the doctor recommended. You know that.”
Fernando didn’t like how quickly she said it. How smoothly.
Elena’s fingers tightened around the armrest like it hurt.
Before Fernando could press further, a voice spoke from the doorway.
Not soft.
Not timid.
A voice with dirt on its shoes and fire in its eyes.
“Sir,” the voice said. “Your daughter isn’t broken. She’s being made broken.”
Fernando turned, stunned.
At the doorway stood Immani Reed, a Black woman in her thirties with her hair pulled back and cleaning gloves peeking from her apron pocket. She worked in the house the way the house worked around her: quietly, invisibly, expected to blend into the background like furniture.
But now she stood upright, shoulders squared, eyes bright with anger that had been swallowed too long.
The chandelier’s light trembled over the marble floor as Fernando stared at her.
Immani didn’t beg to be believed.
She declared the truth.
“She can move,” Immani said, pointing to Elena. “And you’ll know it the moment you look at her.”
Viven’s expression didn’t change, but something cold flashed behind her eyes.