David’s jaw tightened.
“I’m asking you to show basic compassion for a young woman who feels sick. Are you really threatened by an employee?”
Cecilia lowered her face. Her shoulders trembled.
At first, I thought she was crying.
Then I saw it.
A tiny smile at the corner of her mouth. Quick. Hidden. Meant only for me.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Victory.
Something inside me went quiet.
David leaned across her to pull the seat belt over her body. His hand lingered near her shoulder. “Careful,” he murmured. “You’re shaking.”
The doorman looked away. A man in a gray coat pretended not to watch.
And I understood: humiliation only works when the wounded person still begs to be understood.