You feel something in you go cold.
“Camila,” you say, voice steady. “Pack a bag.”
Her eyes widen. “What?” she whispers.
Patrícia snaps, “Excuse me?” and takes a step closer. “You’re not going to start acting like some hero. She’s fine. She—”
You look at Patrícia like she’s a bug on your windshield. “I wasn’t talking to you,” you say.
Patrícia’s face twists. “Ricardo, you’re embarrassing us. Everyone’s upstairs. Mom’s going to—”
“Good,” you say. “Let her come.”
Patrícia’s eyes flash with panic. “You don’t understand what’s been happening,” she blurts.
You tilt your head. “Then explain it,” you say. “Explain why my wife is in a hot back kitchen washing pans while you toast ‘transferências do mano Ricardo’ like I’m an ATM.”
Patrícia opens her mouth, closes it, and then defaults to her favorite weapon: blame. “Camila can’t manage anything,” she says sharply. “She would’ve blown through your money. She doesn’t know how to behave with high society. We were protecting your image.”
