(Alice)
I don’t cry when I leave the corridor.
I don’t cry when I reach my room.
I don’t cry when I slam the door and lock it behind me as if wood and metal could keep humiliation out.
I cry when the silence finally believes me.
It comes in waves—hot, breathless, ugly. I press my palm to my mouth to keep the sound in. I refuse to be heard. In this house, weakness echoes. And I have never been weak.
They think I am spoiled. Soft. A woman raised on silk who mistakes comfort for power.
They are wrong.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in my skirt, replaying the moment again and again. Luca stepping between us. His voice. Low. Final. The way he said my name like a warning instead of an endearment.
If you ever imply harm again…
Again.
As if I already had.
As if wanting so
