Mateo leans forward, voice firm.
“I’m not here to destroy you,” he says. “I’m here to stop him. And I needed someone inside that house who could hear things, see things, confirm what my evidence already suggests.”
Your chest tightens.
“So you married me to use me,” you say, and the words taste like blood.
Mateo’s face flinches for the first time.
“Yes,” he admits, and his honesty hurts worse than a lie.
“But not only that.”
He reaches for your hand slowly, waiting until you don’t pull away.
“When I saw you in the bakery,” he says, “the way people stared at you like you were something to survive… I wanted to burn the whole town down.”
Your throat tightens.
“You didn’t even know me,” you whisper.
“I knew enough,” he says. “I knew you’d been trained to apologize for existing.”
You stare at him, torn between rage and relief and something you’re terrified to name.
Because the strangest part is this: no one has ever defended you like this.
Not your mother. Not your father. Not your classmates.
Not even you.
Mateo continues, voice low.
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