Patrícia waves a hand. “Relax. It’s just dishes. We’re hosting a party, we needed extra hands. She’s… she’s part of the family.”
Your jaw tightens. “Family doesn’t talk like that,” you say. “Family doesn’t call her ‘Camilinha’ like she’s a pet.”
Camila flinches at the sound of your anger, and that alone makes your chest burn. You hate that she’s learned to fear reactions, to fear conflict, to fear being defended.
You soften your voice and look back at her. “Camila,” you say gently. “Did you choose this?”
She hesitates, eyes flicking to Patrícia like a reflex. That one movement tells you everything.
Patrícia steps forward, smiling again like she can charm her way out of gravity. “Ricardo, don’t be dramatic. Camila’s fine. She’s been a little emotional lately, you know how she is. And your mom said—”
“Don’t,” you cut in.
The word lands like a door slamming. Patrícia’s smile cracks.
You turn and look around the little back kitchen again. You notice a thin mattress rolled in the corner, the kind used for storage, not sleeping. You notice a small fan pointing at the sink, as if heat is her only privilege. You notice, on a hook, an apron with stains and a cheap label.
Your mansion has a uniform for your wife.
