Chapter 13
Bianca asked to leave the estate.
I said yes.
That surprised her.
“You’re not stopping me?”
“No.”
She stared.
“You want me gone.”
“I want you without authority over Sophie.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
That difference irritated her more than anger.
She wanted exile.
Something dramatic enough to turn into martyrdom.
I refused to give it.
“You have the west cottage if you want it.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Charity.”
“Shelter.”
“There’s no difference.”
“There is when you stop using shelter to buy obedience.”
She looked at me.
Then away.
For one second, she looked old.
Not matriarch.
Not architect.
Just sixty-two and suddenly unnecessary to decisions she used to control.
I felt something dangerous.
Pity.
Not forgiveness.
Not permission.
Pity.
She noticed.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m weak.”
I understood.
Weakness frightened Bianca more than guilt.
Because her entire life had been built around never appearing vulnerable again.
“Who did it to you?”
She went still.
I had never asked.
Maybe nobody had.
“Who taught you hunger was discipline?”
Her face hardened.
“Ancient history.”
“Your mother?”
No answer.
“Father?”
Silence.
I stopped.
Her history might explain her.
It did not belong to me unless she wanted to tell it.
And even if she did, explanation would not erase Sophie.
“I hope someday you answer that for yourself.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You sound like a therapist.”
“I sound tired.”
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
Then she said:
“Your father thought he could break the cycle too.”
I looked at her.
“Maybe he did some of it.”
She frowned.
I continued.
“And maybe I finish another piece.”
Silence.
She picked up her bag.
At the doorway, she turned.
“Sophie will hate you one day.”
“Probably.”
That surprised her.
“She’s my daughter.”
I shrugged.
“She gets to.”
Bianca stared.
Because in her world, children were allowed love or fear.
Not anger.
Not disagreement.
Not distance.
I opened the door.
May you like
She left without guards.
For the first time, I did not need her obedience to prove I had power.
