Mag-log inGwen That night, I dreamed in fragments. Not the violent dreams, the ones with water and gunfire and the weightless terror of falling, but quieter ones. Disjointed scenes stitched together without chronology. A narrow bed. The smell of antiseptic. A ceiling fan spinning too slowly. Hands I could not see, voices I could not place. Borrowed years. I woke before dawn, my heart steady but heavy, as if it had been carrying something all night and had finally set it down. The room was dark, the villa silent except for the distant hum of security systems doing their tireless work. I lay still and stared at the ceiling, letting memory surface on its own terms. For months, I had told myself the same story. I stayed too long. I did not fight hard enough. I should have known something was wrong. The story had been useful. It gave me someone to blame who was always available, myself. It kept the anger contained, turned inward, where it could not disrupt anything or anyone. Camilla liked tha
Gwen Once I began watching, I could not stop.That was the real danger. Not fear but clarity. I noticed Camilla first in the mornings. She always appeared at breakfast as though summoned by instinct rather than routine, perfectly timed, already composed. Her hair was immaculate, her posture relaxed, her presence reassuring in a way that made people unconsciously straighten when she entered the room. My mother softened the moment she saw her. It was subtle. A fractional lift at the corners of her mouth. A loosening in her shoulders. Camilla did not demand loyalty, she inspired it, the way people leaned toward warmth without realizing they were cold to begin with. “Gwen, you look rested,” Camilla said one morning, placing a gentle hand over mine as she passed. Her touch was light, maternal. Public. Unassailable. I smiled on reflex. “I slept well.” It was a lie, but an acceptable one. Camilla’s eyes lingered for half a second too long, not enough for anyone else to notice, but long
Gwen I watched the video again. I told myself I was only replaying it to notice details, to ground myself in something real, something good, but the truth was simpler and more humiliating. I could not stop. My thumb hovered over the screen like it had learned a reflex my mind had not approved.Kayla stood near a small table this time, her backpack still too large for her shoulders, one strap slipping as she leaned forward to peer at something a teacher was showing her. She nodded, once, decisively, then asked a question I could not hear, her expression earnest and intent.The teacher bent closer and listened. I pressed my fingers to my lips. She did not shrink. She did not look around to see whether she was allowed to speak. She did not check anyone’s face for permission. She spoke. I replayed it. Again.There was a short clip after that, Kayla sitting cross-legged on a bright rug, hands folded in her lap, her posture attentive but relaxed. Another child shifted closer to her, invadi
AdrianI told myself I was only there to observe. That was the agreement, half day, limited interaction, no pressure. Kayla’s first real immersion into a structured world again, and my role was meant to be peripheral. A shadow at the edge of the room. A contingency plan disguised as a father.St. Aurelia International Academy did nothing to soothe that instinct.The campus was immaculate in the way institutions designed to shape future power always were. Pale stone buildings softened by ivy, wide windows meant to signal transparency, manicured lawns that looked untouched by chaos. Flags from half a dozen countries lined the entrance. Multilingual welcome signs. Quiet confidence. Elite. International. Controlled.Miguel had called it “an environment worthy of her mind,” which was his careful way of saying that anything less would suffocate Kayla. I hadn’t disagreed. I had simply delayed. Delay was my specialty.I stood at the back of the observation gallery overlooking the lower primar
Adrian Her reply reached me while the house was still quiet, the hour suspended between night and morning when even my thoughts tended to tread carefully. I was standing in the kitchen, bare hands wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. Kayla was still asleep. Miguel, too. The world felt paused, like it was waiting to see which way I would breathe. My phone vibrated once on the counter. I did not rush for it. I had learned, over the years, that anticipation could be as dangerous as fear. Especially where Gwen was concerned. Every word from her carried weight now, measured, deliberate, chosen under pressure I could not touch but felt all the same. I picked up the phone. Her name was there. Just her name. No emojis. No softening preamble. No camouflage. I opened the message. 'Thank you for telling me. She’s incredible.' My chest tightened, sharp and immediate, like a fist closing around something vital. I leaned my hip against the counter, grounding myself, letting
Gwen The message came just after dawn, when the villa was still pretending to sleep. I had been awake for hours. I lay beneath silk sheets that felt more like restraints than comfort, staring at the faint line of light creeping along the ceiling while the ocean breathed steadily beyond the balcony doors. The house held its breath with it, quiet, alert, always listening. Camilla liked mornings. She said they were for renewal. For gratitude. I had learned they were for surveillance. My phone vibrated once on the nightstand. I did not reach for it immediately. In this house, every sound felt borrowed. Every object felt observed. My room. My time. My so-called healing. All curated. All managed. All quietly dictated by a woman who smiled like salvation and hid rot beneath perfume and benevolence. Then I saw the name on the screen. Adrian. My chest tightened sharply, like a muscle pulled too fast. There was no text at first. Just a single video attachment. My fingers hovered above







