The front door clicks shut with a quiet finality as Andrea steps inside, her heels already dangling from two fingers. Helena and Vítor trail in behind her, their conversation soft but brisk—something about tomorrow's appointments and catering options for an event she doesn't want to hear about.
"I'll head up," Andrea says, her voice carrying just enough to be polite, but not enough to invite further discussion.
"Goodnight, querida," Helena calls absently, already halfway into the living room.
"Boa noite, filha," Vítor adds, loosening his tie with one hand as he walks toward the kitchen.
Andrea doesn't answer right away. She just offers a faint smile before slipping up the staircase and into the sanctuary of her room.
