BOUND TO HER LIGHT

CHAPTER 8

Dinner at Duván Manor was unusually quiet.

The crystal chandelier spilled soft golden light across the long dining table, but it didn’t warm the air. It felt heavy, like the house itself was waiting for Gabriel Duván to speak.

Isla sat near the end, spine straight, appetite gone. The incident at the library replayed in her mind on a loop, the boy’s surprised cry, the other mother’s glare, Evie’s stubborn little face as she’d clutched the stolen crayon like a trophy.

Evie sat beside her father, lips pressed in a thin line, swinging her legs under the table. Maxen mashed his potatoes into unrecognizable shapes, oblivious to the tension gathering like storm clouds.

Gabriel set his fork down. The sound was small but final.

“Miss Barlow.”

Isla’s heart stumbled. “Sir?”

His eyes lifted slowly, dark and unreadable. “I hear my daughter pushed a boy at the library today.”

Isla wet her lips, voice catching. “He… he took her crayon. She asked for it back, but he wouldn’t give it. I tried to intervene, but....”

“She pushed him.” Gabriel’s tone was flat, but the quiet steel beneath it made the room feel smaller.

Evie finally spoke, her little voice piping up, defensive. “He grabbed it from me first!”

Gabriel turned to her, his gaze softening but his jaw staying tight. “So you pushed him?”

Evie fidgeted, eyes dropping to her lap. “He laughed at me,” she mumbled.

Gabriel sighed, extending his hand toward her. “Come here.”

She slid off her chair and climbed into his lap. His arm settled around her tiny shoulders, steady but firm.

“You can’t push people, Evie,” he said quietly. “Even when they take things from you. Understand?”

She nodded, lip trembling just slightly. “Yes, Daddy.”

He kissed the top of her hair once before signaling to Mrs. Hills. “Take them upstairs.”

Evie left without looking back. Maxen followed, dragging his toy car along the floor.

When the room was empty but for the two of them, Gabriel’s eyes cut back to Isla.

“My children are your responsibility when they leave this house,” he said evenly. “Today, you failed.”

Isla’s chest tightened. “Sir, I tried to stop it. I told her to share, but she...”

“You failed,” he repeated, voice hardening. “And I don’t tolerate incompetence.”

The words landed like stones.

He turned his wheelchair sharply and left her sitting there in the echoing dining room, hands clenched in her lap, throat burning.

Later, in the solitude of her tiny room, Isla finally let the tears fall hot, angry, helpless.

She had wanted this job to save her family.

But tonight, all she felt was small.