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So I swallow the rage like poison and let it fester.

“I’ll take care of everything, baby.” I wait, but she doesn’t move. “You hear me?”

She turns her head slightly. Not to meet my gaze. Only to acknowledge the sound of my voice. Her eyes remain distant, where I can’t catch them.

I need something. Anything. Proof she’s still inside herself.

“Nod if you understand.”

Her chin dips mechanically, obeying a practiced command.

She reaches for the handle and pulls the glass door shut between us.

An obvious barrier.

A shield.

As much as I want to wrap her in my arms and wash this from her skin, she deserves that boundary. I’d do anything to protect her, but right now I know she’s locked up in her own mind, trying to make herself feel safe. It’s impossible for me to take her pain away.

I gather the clothes from the floor to throw them out. A finer selection will be brought up. No more thrift-store denim or cheap cotton. Whatever she needs, I’ll buy it, steal it, or build it with my own damned hands.

But I can’t buy back innocence.

A father offering his daughter for a pseudo-crown. That kind of betrayal should be returned with a bullet.

I move towards the trash can near the minibar, ready to throw the denim away like it’s cursed, when my fingers catch on something in the back pocket.

An envelope, creased in half from being crammed inside.

I smooth it open. It’s been sealed and stamped. Addressed to someone I’ve never heard of in Brightridge. Simon F. Lyle. The merciless verdict of the yellow sticker across the bottom reads RETURN TO SENDER — REFUSED.

At the top corner is my mother’s name. My address.

The longer I stare, the more I expect the meaning to crawl out and confess. How did Zaiya get this?

The shower still runs in the bathroom. Its steady sound is the only thing anchoring to this place.

I sit down at the desk and tear open the seal under a pool of golden lamp light.

My mother’s handwriting spills down the page in her elegant script. I scan the first lines, but they don’t make sense.

My dearest Simon,

I have written your name and struck it out many times. It feels like a cruelty to put it to paper when I haven’t earned the right to say it aloud.

My jaw tightens.

An affair?

No, that doesn’t make sense. My parents were too in love. Together since they were young, through all the rituals and shifts in power.

So what the hell is this?

Through the years, I’ve thought that silence might be kinder. If I left you untouched, then perhaps you would have a life entirely your own. But silence is a lie I’ve been living in for too long.

When you found me, I feared you would hate me, and my fear came true. I can’t blame you for it. Your words were not gentle, but they were not undeserved.

I am sorry for the life you were given, and for the one I was never allowed to have with you. Not a day passes that I don’t feel your absence.