“Funny,” Immani murmured, “because I’ve never seen a single prescription. Not one appointment card, not one report. Just you… and a glass of orange juice… and a new rule every day.”
Fernando’s eyes snapped to Elena.
He watched the habits he’d ignored for months.
The way Elena flinched when Viven shifted her weight.
The way her fingers tightened around the armrest whenever Viven spoke.
The way her answers arrived late, after she stole a glance at Viven’s face like she needed permission to be honest.
“Why did you keep saying she couldn’t drink water?” Fernando asked, voice rising. “Why did you say plain water was dangerous?”
Viven exhaled, irritated now. The softness was thinning.
“Because it upset her stomach,” Viven said. “Because she’s delicate. Because I’m the only one who’s been here doing the work while you…”
“While I trusted you,” Fernando cut in, and the pain in his voice turned poisonous. “While I let you stand between me and my child.”
Elena’s throat bobbed.
Her eyes darted from Fernando to Viven again, fast as a bruise blooming.
That movement was a confession without words.
Immani stepped closer to the wheelchair, gentle as a shield.