HERMIA POV
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I was leaving.
I would go to the U.S., find a job, and work for myself.
I don't need their approval. I don't need their love.
I was done begging. Done hoping. Done hurting.
Squaring my shoulders, I forced my chin up, swallowing the knot of tears lodged in my throat. If I cried, they would win. And I refused to give them that satisfaction.
The house—no, this place—was no longer my home. It never had been. I had been stupidly hopeful.
I grabbed my bags and moved, each step filled with purpose. But just as I reached the door, I stopped and turned. My gaze met theirs—Mariela, smug and victorious; Selena, practically vibrating with glee; and my father, his expression carved from stone.
I clenched my jaw. "You've asked me out of your lives, and that's exactly what I'll do. I'll leave. And I hope, with every fiber of my being, that you regret this a million times over."
My voice didn't waver. It rang through the silence like a final verdict.
