Still, I forced a mild smile and aimed it at my daughter.
“Welcome, Clara,” I said quietly, pulling every ounce of softness I could summon into my voice. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“Thank you for letting us stay,” Clara said politely—but her gaze flicked back to her mother, and her hand squeezed harder.
Valentina brushed her hair, protective, and held my stare a second longer—testing whether I would challenge her story.
When she realized I wouldn’t—not in front of Clara—her shoulders loosened slightly, though her expression stayed cold.
“Can we go to our room now?” she asked. “Clara’s tired.”
It wasn’t a request.
It was an order wrapped in politeness.
I clenched my teeth and nodded once, gesturing down the hall where my housekeeper was already waiting.
“Dolores can show you the house.”
“Not now,” Valentina said, decisive. “Later.”
“Very well.”
She walked away, leading Clara with her.
“Valentina,” I called.
She stopped instantly. Her shoulders tightened before she even turned, as if my voice alone pulled a wire inside her spine.
The look she gave me—cold, wary—wasn’t surprising.
And I felt a perverse satisfaction watching her stand there braced for impact.
“After Clara rests,” I said, keeping my voice measured, “come to my office. We need to talk about what’s expected—going forward.”
My tone was intentionally impersonal.
A challenge.
Valentina’s expression hardened. Anger and old pain flashed in her eyes.
“Fine,” she said at last, fists subtly clenched at her sides. “Later.”
She disappeared down the corridor without looking back.
My initial satisfaction faded quickly into irritation.
Valentina needed to understand her position in this house.
She wasn’t a guest.
She wasn’t a friend.
She was here because there was no other choice—because I had decided it.
And if I had anything to say about it, she would never forget that.
I went to my office, tension rigid in my muscles.
