Rosa’s breath quivered. Her hands shook. Her entire body screamed to panic.
Panic wouldn’t fix this.
She forced herself to scan the kitchen like a detective, rather than a terrified woman on the floor.
That’s when she saw it.
A baby bottle, lying on its side by the island, rolling slightly on the polished marble. A clear residue clung to the plastic like a confession.
Rosa’s throat tightened.
She remembered Valeria’s hand—perfectly manicured, glossy red nails—unscrewing the cap with the same indifference someone would use to toss salad dressing.
She remembered Valeria’s voice, flat and irritated, as Santi’s crying echoed through the house.
“Enough,” Valeria had said. “I’m done listening to this.”
“Ma’am, that isn’t—”
Valeria hadn’t even looked at her.
She poured the bottle anyway.
Then, she leaned in close, her perfume sharp and expensive, and whispered softly—like it was a kindness.
“You’re nobody here, Rosa,” Valeria murmured. “And if you want to stay in this country, you’ll be invisible and obedient. Understand?”
Rosa had frozen.
One second of fear.
One second that now felt like the most expensive second of her life.
Because minutes later, Santi’s crying stopped.
And then… so did everything else.
Now, Rosa sat on the floor, holding the consequence of her hesitation.
And she realized something that sliced through her fear like a blade:
If she stayed quiet, this baby could die.
And she would have to live with it forever.
Rosa’s hands stopped shaking.
Not because she wasn’t scared.
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