The flowers were beautiful, and they made me want to be sick. His face, usually a mask of cool charm, was arranged into an expression of heavy sorrow. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Millicent," he said, his voice soft, too soft. "I couldn't sleep. I had to come. I am… so deeply sorry for what happened."
The apology hung in the air, thick and suffocating. It wasn't an apology; it was a claim, a demonstration of power. He wasn't asking for forgiveness; he was showing me he could cross any line, commit any act, and still have the audacity to show up at my home bearing flowers.
I couldn't speak. The horror of the previous day, the fear for Pascal, the sheer violation of his presence here, now, stole my breath. And specifically, the fear of my father.
A cold ran through me. What if my father tries to confront him, and it ends up like Pascal as well? Breaking his bones with his blood, like painting the room red. I was scared to open the door wide for him to come in, but he was pushing the door to make his way inside.
But Becky didn't freeze. She stepped forward, placing herself slightly in front of me, a human shield in pajama pants and a messy bun.
"You need to leave, Locas," she said, her voice low and steady, laced with a steel I'd never heard before. It wasn't a request.
His gaze flickered to her, a flicker of annoyance before the fury mask slid back into place. He didn't even answer Becky; he acted as if she never existed and turned to me. "I just want to apologize. To make things right, just let me in."
"You put a man in the hospital," Becky stated, her words clear and sharp like a piece of broken glass. "You don't get to make things right with flowers. You make them right by never coming near Millicent or Pascal again. Now get off her porch."
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. The absolute, unshakeable conviction in it was more powerful than any shout. For a moment, his placid expression faltered, and I saw the cold, calculating man beneath. His eyes met mine and in them, I saw not love but a terrifying, possessive obsession.
Then, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He placed the bouquet carefully on the doorstep, the cellophane crunching in the morning quiet.
"For you, Millicent," he said softly and turned to leave. Just as he had taken two steps forward to his car, my father called him with a commanding tone. Then what I had feared most was about to unfold.
My father, a proud man never shaken by fear, stood slightly in front of me, with my friend Becky clutching his arm.
My heart wasn't just pounding; it was a frantic bird beating itself against the cage of my ribs.I stood there, my hand still tingling from the force with which I'd pushed the heavy door closed to prevent Rocas from coming in.
My father looked disgustingly at Rocas. He said, jutting his chin out, "Let me warn you and your irresponsible kind: Stay away from my daughter. Millicent is not for your kind. She's a good girl from a good family."
Rocas, a man with eyes the color of cold slate and a smile that never reached them, simply stared. He didn't move, but the air in the room thickened.
"My kind?" Rocas's voice was a low, conversational contrast to my father's tremor. "You run a modest hardware store," Mr. Adofo, he called my dad by his name. "Cut down your low grasses on Sundays. You are a small man who has just shouted at a mountain." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, and I felt Becky flinch.
"I am trying very hard right now to remember that you are an elderly man and that Milicent is a woman. I do not wish to unleash my anger on either of you, so I suggest you be quiet."
The insult was breathtaking. Not a shouted allegation, but a calm, dismissive assessment of my father's entire life as insignificant. It was more humiliating than any curse word. My father's face crumpled, the storm draining out of him, leaving only a terrified old man.
That's when my friend, Becky, stepped forward. Her fear had curdled into a sharp, reckless fury. "You think you're a big man?" she spat, her voice loud. "You're a cockroach. A glorified thug who preys on people better than you. Your money is dirty, your suits can't hide what you are, and your mother would be ashamed of the bully you've become."
A deadly silence followed her words. One of Roca's men shifted his weight, his hand twitching toward his jacket. Rocas himself went perfectly still. The pleasant, predatory mask slipped for a single, terrifying second, and I saw the raw, murderous fury beneath. I thought, This is it. He's going to kill her right here.
But then, his eyes flicked to me.
And that's when the true, paralyzing fear took hold. It wasn't just for my parents, or even for myself. It was for Pascal, broken and helpless in a room down the hall. It was the horrifying understanding that these men operated outside of every rule I had ever known. They didn't care about hospital quiet, decency, or consequences. The world was their back alley.
My own voice was trapped in my throat, a frozen knot. I wanted to scream, to throw myself at them, to demand how they could do this to a good man, to us. But all I could do was stand there, my body trembling uncontrollably. I was a mouse caught in the gaze of a snake, every instinct screaming that the slightest movement could mean the end.
Roca's gaze held mine, and in it, I saw a message meant only for me. He saw my fear; he drank it in, and he knew it made him the absolute master of this moment.
He finally broke the silence, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more threatening than any shout. "The next time," he said, his eyes still locked on mine, "I won't be so patient next time, I won't be talking to the parents." He let the implication hang in the air, a promise of a more personal, more final vengeance.
Then, with a slight nod to his men, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like the sound of a bird.
The moment the door swung shut, my legs gave way. I collapsed onto a couch, the violent tremors causing extreme pain in my body. The confrontation was over, but the terror was just beginning. They weren't just after Pascal anymore. They were after all of us. And I was more scared than I had ever been in my life.
As his car pulled away from our compound, Becky didn't hesitate. She picked up the beautiful, poisonous bouquet, walked to the large trash bin at the side of the house, and dropped it inside. The sound of the door closing, without seeing blood stains at that moment, was the most final, comforting sound I had heard all morning.
She came back, took my icy hand in her warm one, and squeezed. "Let's go," she said. "Let's go see your Pascal."
And with her beside me, I finally felt like I could.