Adrian
“Papa,” Leonel whispers, tightening his grip on my hand, his fingers warm and slightly damp. “Why is everyone looking at us like that?”
I slow my steps without stopping, letting the chandelier light wash over us as murmurs ripple through the hall. “Because they’re bored,” I tell him quietly. “And bored people look for stories.”
“They don’t look bored,” he says, glancing sideways at a woman who turns away too late. “They look… sharp.”
“That’s because they’re counting,” Serafina says beside me, her voice smooth, unbothered, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Aurelia turns around as she walks a few steps in front of us, her chin lifted, her gaze cool and assessing in a way no child should have learned so early. “They’re doing it wrong,” she says flatly.
I arch a brow. “Doing what wrong?”
“Judging us,” she replies, not slowing. “They’re staring like we’re a mistake.”
Serafina’s mouth curves, just barely, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask permission. “And what do we do with mistakes, Aurelia?”
“We correct them,” she answers, already turning forward again.
Behind us, someone clears their throat too loudly. Another laugh comes a second too late. The whispers thicken, wrapping themselves around crystal glasses and polished shoes.
“Isn’t that him?” a man murmurs to his companion, not quite under his breath. “I thought he’d left.”
“So did I,” the other replies. “Strange, isn’t it?”
I feel Serafina’s shoulder brush mine as we pause near the bar. She doesn’t look at me, but her posture is relaxed, defiant in its ease.
“You’re unsettling them,” I murmur.
“Good,” she replies, lifting a glass offered by a waiter without a thank-you. “They were far too comfortable.”
“They’re waiting,” I say, keeping my voice low. “For you to stumble. For me to choose sides.”
She finally turns her head, eyes sharp, alive. “And what side are you choosing?”
I meet her gaze without hesitation. “The one where my children sleep peacefully.”
Her lips part, just slightly, as if she hadn’t expected that answer. “Careful,” she says softly. “They don’t like it when men don’t punish women properly.”
“I’ve noticed,” I reply.
A man approaches, smile polished, eyes calculating. “It’s good to see you,” he says, extending a hand. “You’ve been… quiet.”
“Busy,” I correct, shaking his hand.
His gaze flicks to Serafina, lingers for half a second too long. “And Serafina? How is she managing?”
Serafina lifts her glass and takes a slow sip, saying nothing.
“She’s thriving,” I answer pleasantly.
The man’s smile tightens. “Thriving,” he repeats, as if tasting something unfamiliar. “After everything?”
“After everything,” I confirm.
“And you?” another voice cuts in, a second man joining us, eyes sharp with curiosity. “This arrangement must be… difficult.”
I smile. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
They exchange a look. It’s quick, but it’s there. Confusion. Discomfort. The absence of bitterness unsettles them more than anger ever could.
“Well,” the first man says, stepping back, “that’s… admirable.”
“Is it?” Serafina asks lightly. “You sound disappointed.”
The men laugh awkwardly and retreat.
Leonel tugs my hand again. “Papa,” he whispers. “Why do they keep asking about Mama like she’s not standing right there?”
“Because it’s easier to talk about people than to talk to them,” I tell him.
“I don’t like it,” he says.
“Neither do I,” Serafina replies, glancing down at him. “That’s why we don’t do it.”
The next morning, the school courtyard hums with forced cheer. Serafina stands across from a teacher whose smile is stretched thin, nodding too often, hands clasped too tightly.
“We do encourage structure here,” the teacher says brightly. “Children thrive with consistency.”
Serafina tilts her head. “They also thrive with logic.”
The teacher’s smile falters. “Of course, but rules are rules.”
Aurelia steps forward before either of us can stop her. “My mother doesn’t like rules that don’t make sense,” she announces clearly.
There’s a pause. Parents nearby pretend not to listen while listening very carefully.
The teacher stiffens. “Rules are important, Aurelia.”
Aurelia doesn’t blink. “So is courage.”
I watch the teacher glance at me, as if waiting for correction, discipline, embarrassment.
I give her none.
“That will be all,” Serafina says calmly, turning away.
At the café later, the children dissolve into sugar and laughter while Serafina leans back in her chair, sunglasses hiding her eyes, one ankle crossed over the other.
“They’re tightening,” she says casually.
I stir my coffee. “Who?”
“Everyone who needs me smaller,” she replies. “Quieter. Easier to explain.”
“They’ll poke,” I say. “Try to get a reaction.”
She smiles faintly. “I don’t react anymore.”
I look at her. “Then what do you do?”
“I decide.”
That night, the city breathes beneath us as we stand on opposite sides of the terrace, wine glasses catching the light.
“You could have disappeared,” she says suddenly.
“So could you,” I answer.
She nods. “We didn’t.”
I step closer, stopping just short of touching. “You scare them.”
She smiles. “Only because I refuse to carry their shame.”
Later still, in darker rooms, men test me.
“She’ll bring chaos,” one says.
“She already has,” I reply calmly. “And the world didn’t end.”
“You’re too soft,” another sneers.
“No,” I correct. “I’m exact.”
That night, watching Serafina stand over Aurelia’s bed, she speaks without turning.
“You’re still here.”
“I told you I would be.”
“And you don’t regret it.”
I shake my head. “I regret the world that taught us this was wrong.”
She exhales, something loosening in her chest.
“They’ll never stop watching,” she says.
“Let them,” I reply. “They’ll miss everything that matters.”
She turns then, eyes burning, unapologetic.
“They’ll blame you if I succeed.”
I smile. “I can live with that.”