"Elenore, what is going on?" my father asked, concern etched across his face.
"I don't know. I can't understand any of this. Please, believe me," I replied, my voice trembling.
He searched my eyes, then took my hand in his, a gesture of warmth and reassurance. "Can you tell me what's happening, Elenore?" he inquired gently.
"Father," I began, grappling with the truth that felt lodged in my throat. How could I explain the turmoil without betraying myself?
"Father, my aunt poisoned me. Please believe me—Gabriel knows too. John was only trying to help; he didn't do anything wrong," I said, the words tumbling out. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was a piece of it.
"But why didn't you come home? Why are you still here?" he pressed, his brow furrowing.
"I was traumatized. John helped me cope," I admitted.
"That's it?" he said, disbelief etched on his face. "You shouldn't believe him or trust him. He's not a good person for you."
