"She needed her mother."
"Then where were you?" I step closer, and Elena's eyes widen slightly. "Not at school pickup—you had the nanny do that. Not at the house when she started feeling sick. Not in the bathroom holding her hair while she vomited blood. Where were you, Elena?"
"I was—" She falters. Just for a second. "I had appointments. I can't be expected to drop everything?—"
"For your daughter? Yeah. You can." The rage I've been swallowing for weeks crawls up my throat, hot and bitter. "But you won't. Because Mila isn't a daughter to you. She's a weapon. A bargaining chip. Something to use against Sergei when you want to hurt him."
"How dare you?—"
"How dare I tell the truth? That's all I'm doing. You don't want custody because you love her. You want custody because you hate him. And you're willing to traumatize your own child to win."
Elena's face goes white. Then red. Her hand flies up?—
I catch her wrist mid-swing. Squeeze hard enough to feel bones grind.
"Don't." One word. Soft and lethal. "Your daughter is in that bed, watching you try to assault someone. Is this the mother you want her to see? Is this what you want her to learn about how women handle conflict?"
Elena tries to wrench free, but I hold firm. Her eyes are wild now, humiliated fury mixing with something that might be shame if she were capable of feeling it.
"Let go of me."
"When you calm down."
"I said let go?—"
"Mama, stop."
We both freeze.
Mila's sitting up in the hospital bed, IV trailing from her small arm, face pale and tear-streaked. She's looking at her mother with an expression I've never seen on an eight-year-old.
Disappointment.
"Izzy helped me," Mila says quietly. "She held my hand when I was scared. She drove really fast to get here. She didn't leave me alone." Her voice cracks. "You always leave me alone."
Elena's mouth opens. Closes. For the first time since she arrived, she actually looks at her daughter—really looks—and whatever she sees makes her take a step back.
"Mila, sweetheart, I?—"
"I want Izzy to stay. Not you."
The words are quiet. Final. A child choosing where she feels safe.
And it's not with her mother.
I release Elena's wrist. She stumbles back, cradling it against her chest, staring at Mila like she's never seen her before. Maybe she hasn't. Maybe she's been so busy using her as a weapon that she forgot to look at her as a person.
"Fine." Elena's voice is ice now, all the rage compressed into something colder. More dangerous. "Stay with your stepmother. See how long that lasts when she gets bored of playing family." She turns to leave, then stops at the curtain. "And when Sergei's past catches up to him—when his violence destroys everything he touches—don't expect me to pick up the pieces."
She's gone before I can respond.
I sink back into the chair beside Mila's bed, suddenly exhausted. My hands are shaking. My heart's still hammering from the confrontation. But when I look at Mila, she's not crying anymore.
She's watching me with something that looks like trust.
"She's mad," Mila says quietly.
"Yeah. She is."
