The sun had barely begun to rise, casting a soft golden hue over the mansion's sprawling estate.
Inside my room, everything seemed frozen in place, as though the stillness of the morning reflected the turmoil brewing within me.
I sat by the window, my back leaning against the cool, polished glass as I stared out into the vast garden below.
But my mind was far from peaceful.
I couldn't stop thinking about last night—the conversation with Mr. Alfonzo in the kitchen.
His words replayed in my mind, over and over again, like an insistent drumbeat.
"Bruno will make a good father."
I couldn't shake the image of him speaking so confidently about his son, about how Bruno was somehow capable of being a good man, a good father.
A small part of me wanted to believe him.
Maybe Bruno wasn't the monster I thought he was. Maybe he wasn't the cruel, calculating man who had humiliated me time and time again.
