Kafka thought—no—he feared, that after his mother's venomous words, both Abigaille and Olivia would break down.
That doubt would creep into their hearts, that the fragile foundation of everything they'd built together would shatter.
That they would look at him not as their son, not as their beloved, but as something twisted, wrong, corrupted.
He wanted to scream, to tell them not to listen, to cry out against the chains his mother was trying to wrap around them. The word was already rising in his throat, reckless and desperate, even though he knew that speaking a single syllable might doom them all.
But before he could, Abigaille made her move.
"I-It doesn't matter..."
She whispered, her voice trembling, tears spilling from her lashes, but there was steel beneath the fragility. She looked directly at Vanitas, and then at Kafka, her heart laid bare.
"It doesn't matter at all, Kafi."
Her voice grew stronger as she spoke.
