The last tear slid down Calista's cheek, hot and bitter. It clung to her jaw for a moment before falling onto the silk of her gown, darkening it like a burn mark.
Calista didn't see it—her daughter was too busy covering her own trembling anger—but Isadora felt the weight of it settle inside her chest.
"I hate that she won again," she whispered, her voice raw.
Isadora watched her daughter with a stillness that felt carved from stone. She had seen Calista cry before—quiet tears, hidden tears, the kind she swallowed so no one would notice—but this was different. This was a wound torn open too violently to hide.
The familiar sting. The familiar humiliation. The familiar reminder of a life that had never belonged to her the way she once believed it would.
"I don't want to lose to her again," Calista choked.
