way Vivienne accused her of being, but depleted, as if someone had been taking pieces of her when no one was watching.
Then Julian saw the way her eyes flicked to his phone.
Fear.
Not surprise.
Fear.
He mistook it for being caught.
“Who was he?” he asked.
Mara’s lips parted.
“Julian.”
“The man in the boathouse. Theo saw him. The camera saw him. Do not insult me by lying.”
She closed her eyes.
He hated that. He hated that she retreated inside herself when he needed something solid to strike against.
“Answer me.”
“If I tell you,” she whispered, “she will destroy everything.”
“She?”
Mara swallowed. “Your mother.”
Julian laughed once, a sound without humor.
“Of course. My mother. This is very convenient.”
Mara pushed one elbow into the mattress, trying to rise. Pain moved across her face so quickly he almost missed it.
“Listen to me. Under the tray—”
“No,” he said. “No more riddles. No more locked doors. No more hiding under blankets while my family whispers about you downstairs.”
“Please don’t.”
The words were so raw that some buried part of him should have stopped.
Instead, pride moved faster than love.
He grabbed the edge of the quilt.
Mara seized it with both hands.
“Julian, please.”
“Get up.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll help you.”
He tore the quilt away.
The room went silent.
At first his mind refused to arrange what he saw.
Mara’s nightgown was wrinkled and torn near the hem. Her legs were not tucked beneath her from laziness or shame. They were drawn up because both thighs were marked with dark bruises, some fading yellow at the edges, others fresh and purple. Around her left ankle, a bandage had been wrapped so clumsily that swelling pressed over the edge.
On her right wrist were finger-shaped marks.
On the inside of her arm, just above the elbow, was a small puncture bruise.
Julian stared.
The photograph on his phone dimmed, then went black.
Mara pulled the quilt back over herself with a shaking hand.
He did not stop her.
“Who did this?” he asked.
His voice did not sound like his own.
Mara looked toward the door.
Julian turned.
Vivienne stood in the hallway.
She wore a cream silk robe and pearl earrings, as if she had dressed for this confrontation before dawn. Theo lingered behind her, barefoot and pale, his phone still in his hand.
No one spoke.
Rain moved across the window in thin silver lines.
Vivienne’s gaze traveled from Julian’s face to Mara’s covered legs, then back again.
She smiled carefully.
“Julian, darling, this is exactly what I feared. She has made herself look pitiful.”
Mara made a sound like a swallowed sob.
Julian stepped between them.
“What happened to her ankle?”
“She fell,” Vivienne said.
“When?”
“Two nights ago. She was hysterical. You were in Vancouver. We handled it.”
“Handled it how?”
Vivienne’s expression hardened by one degree. To anyone else, it would have seemed like concern. Julian knew his mother too well not to see the warning under it.
“You are exhausted,” she said. “You have been humiliated. Do not let her exploit that.”
Theo shifted in the hall.
Mara’s eyes fixed on him.
“Tell him,” she whispered.
Theo looked away.
Julian turned to his brother.
“Tell me what?”
