He murmured that it was going to go viral, calling it “pregnant wife drama” with such a cold, repulsive air that even the air seemed sick.
I tried to move, even if only a few centimeters, just to check that I still controlled my body and hadn’t turned into a mere thing lying on the kitchen floor.
I couldn’t, because the pain gripped me from my hip to my belly and left me trapped in a terrifying immobility, more humiliating than the blow itself.
Then I heard something, a low and distant sound that at first I thought came from
my own head, a kind of confused vibration piercing the mist.
First it was a motor, then another, and then the sharp squeal of frepmatics with violence against the house, too abrupt to be a quiet visit.
Victor frowned, annoyed, and asked who the hell was arriving at that hour, as if night, violence and secrecy belonged to them.
Helepa got up with annoyance and walked to the stage, barely pushing aside the curtain with two impatient fingers, still believing that she had control over the stage.
I saw her face change almost immediately, as if an invisible hand had erased her smile, and for the first time all night she seemed frightened.
He called Victor by his name with a thinner voice, less arrogant, and told him that he thought he was visiting, but that word didn’t sound right.
Then the blows came—three brutal impacts against the door, not
like knuckles knocking, but like something demanding entry without asking permission.
They weren’t just knocks; they were dry, violent detonations—a force from the outside that wasn’t coming to talk, but to break whatever stood in its path.
A masculine voice roared to open the door, and although my mind was still racing, I recognized that voice even through the dizziness and pain.
It was Alex, my brother, the only person in the world that I was sure wouldn’t stop this day if he found out what was happening.
Victor let out an arrogant, contemptuous exhalation and called Alex an idiot, still convinced that the size of the house made him the owner of the night.
