Chapter Forty-Seven: No Tears
Lucia stood by the window of her small, rented apartment, watching the city lights flicker in the night. The world outside seemed ordinary, oblivious to the quiet chaos that had shaped her life for years. And yet, for her, nothing felt ordinary anymore.
She had witnessed death, betrayal, and lies that could shatter nations, yet she felt nothing. Not grief, not fear, not even anger. The death of Amara, the woman who had caused so much pain to her mother, had passed like a whisper. It didn't thrill her. It didn't sadden her. It simply was.
Lucia had learned long ago that emotions were a liability. Fear could make you stumble. Grief could make you weak. Rage could make you reckless. She had buried all of them deep, carefully, under layers of control and precision.
Her reflection in the window stared back at her, pale and unreadable. The girl who once trembled at her father's anger, who cried in the dark for her mother's safety, no longer existed.
She thought of Margret's voice from the camcorder, echoing in her mind: "Appear weak, appear fragile, but inside, be a storm."
The storm was still there. Quiet, restrained, precise. It had taken years to cultivate, and now, it guided every decision she made. Emotions had no place. They had been traded for clarity, for patience, for strategy.
Lucia walked to her desk and opened her notebook. Lines of names, dates, evidence, and observations filled the pages. Every detail meticulously documented. Her hands moved steadily, unaffected by the horrors she had observed.
The death of Amara was a line in the ledger. A confirmation of what she already suspected: her father would stop at nothing. He would destroy anyone in his path. He would kill anyone who threatened him, even those closest to him.
Lucia's lips pressed into a thin line. There was no room for tears, no room for hesitation. Every choice from this point on had to be calculated. She had to remain untouchable, invisible, and unshakable.
Outside, the city slept. Inside, Lucia felt the absence of emotion as a strength rather than a void. It allowed her to think clearly, plan meticulously, and move without interference from grief or fear.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes scanning her notes one last time. Each name, each connection, each piece of evidence was part of the larger plan. David had underestimated her for years, believing she was nothing more than a frightened child.
He was wrong.
Lucia whispered to herself, almost as a mantra:
"No tears. No weakness. Only truth. Only justice."
Her reflection in the window seemed to agree. The girl who had once been powerless was gone. The woman who remained was focused, resolute, and untouchable.
The world outside remained unaware, but Lucia knew: the storm was coming. Quietly, methodically, it would strike. And by the time it did, there would be no room left for David to hide.
Tonight, she felt nothing. And that nothing was everything she needed.