“Did he know?”
“No.”
That lands between you like a clean knife. Sofía sits across from you and folds one leg under herself. “Then he was never expecting consequences,” she says. “Which means this was overdue.”
You nod.
Because that is exactly it. The cruelty of what Emilio said on the couch was not just the words. It was the confidence underneath them, the certainty that he could hand you his mother’s contempt, dressed up as honesty, and then roll over in bed beside you like the issue was your mood. He never thought you would leave because some part of him had come to believe your presence was a utility, always on, always available, always refilling itself by magic.
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