“No,” she whispers.
Then she looks down at the floor.
And that’s when you know she’s lying to protect someone, and the someone is not Helena.
“It’s okay,” you say softly, because you can’t force a traumatized person to speak.
You shift your focus to what you can do right now.
You stand, open the door slightly, and call your head of security with one sentence:
“Clear the property. Immediately.”
Then you add, low and precise: “And do not let Helena leave.”
Outside, chaos begins.
Music cuts.
Guests protest.
Phones come up like shields.
Helena storms toward the lounge door, face furious.
But two security guards intercept her.
“Gustavo!” she screams.
“You’re humiliating me!”
You step out, eyes calm.
“You humiliated a child,” you answer.
“And you lied about my wife.”
Helena’s face shifts, and for the first time you see fear behind her perfume.
She tries to laugh.
“You’re delusional,” she snaps.
“Your wife is dead.”
You hold up the photo.
“She’s alive,” you say.
“And you’re going to tell me where she is.”
Helena’s smile collapses into a snarl.
“You don’t have proof,” she hisses.
You nod.
“I will,” you say.
“And until then, you’re not going anywhere.”
Helena tries to push past security, but they block her.
Her eyes dart, searching for allies in the crowd.
Most people look away, suddenly too interested in their drinks.
Because cruelty is fun until it becomes expensive.
You return inside with Lívia and Davi.
Your voice is steady but urgent.
“We’re leaving,” you tell them.
Lívia’s eyes widen.
“To where?”
You swallow hard.
“To Porto Dourado,” you say.
“To bring my wife home.”
Then you look at Davi. “And to find out why you carry the same moon on your neck.”
The drive is long and heavy.
Davi falls asleep in the backseat, curled like a question mark.
Lívia sits beside you, hands clenched, tears dried into exhaustion.
“What are you to her?” you ask quietly.
Lívia hesitates.
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