“Belongs?”
“Don’t become dramatic.”
I looked through the bedroom doorway at Elena sleeping beneath a blanket, her injured back cleaned and bandaged. “Victor struck her.”
“Marriage requires discipline.”
That sentence burned away the last trace of mercy I had left.
“You sound very confident, Conrad.”
“I am untouchable.”
A notification flashed across my black phone: warrants signed.
I smiled. “Then stand still.”
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He paused. “What did you say?”
But I had already ended the call.
At the cathedral, Victor stood beneath carved angels, smirking while guests checked their watches. Conrad assured everyone that the bride was having “emotional difficulties.” His wife laughed and said middle-class girls often panicked when stepping into greatness.
Then every screen inside the cathedral flickered.
Victor’s messages appeared first.
Cover the marks.
Your brother’s arraignment is Monday.
Then came a photograph: Elena’s bruised back, documented by a licensed physician, time-stamped and sealed.
