The room smelled faintly of something Ethan couldn't quite put his hand on, probably the air felt still. Echoes of quiet conversations bounced between glass walls and cold concrete floors.
Maria-Isabel sat on the edge of her seat, arms crossed tightly over her chest, with Isabella, a fragile wall of choas. When the guard announced Ethan's name, her heart sank—not because she was surprised he'd come again, but because part of her had foolishly hoped he wouldn't.
He walked in slowly, his shoulders heavier than the last time she saw him. The dark blue coat he wore made his eyes look stormy, like he had carried bad weather with him. He stopped in front of her and waited. She didn't stand. She didn't even blink.
"I told you not to come here again," she said, her voice brittle. "I told you what I want. Just help me raise my daughter from in here. Nothing more."
