The echo of Camila's footsteps fading down the main hallway rang with a force no one dared interrupt. The door had not even fully closed when Dmitri, leaning back casually in his chair, let out a short, mocking laugh.
"Oh…" he said, tilting his head. "Just like you said, Helena. She runs from conversations when she doesn't win them."
The comment lingered in the air for only a few seconds, but it was enough.
Romeo, who until then had remained silent, trying to avoid further chaos, felt something tighten in his chest. He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to restrain himself. It didn't work.
He stood up slowly.
"That's enough," he said.
His voice wasn't a shout. It was worse—low, firm, final.
Dmitri raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"Excuse me?"
Romeo placed both hands on the table, leaning forward.
"I've tried to be diplomatic," he continued. "I've tried to understand all of you. To put myself in everyone's shoes, even when I disagreed. I thought this would be resolved easily… like mature adults."
He looked at Helena. Then at Dmitri.
"But I can't stand the way you talk behind words. The way you throw phrases when you know exactly where they stab."
Helena frowned.
"Romeo, you're not being objective."
"No," he replied. "I'm being honest."
Dmitri adjusted himself in his seat, a crooked smile on his face.
"Honest? You're being sentimental."
Romeo slowly shook his head.
"If you think John has no emotions just because he doesn't express them the way you prefer, then you've understood nothing," he said. "John has more emotions than all of you combined. The difference is he doesn't use them to manipulate or humiliate."
At the hallway entrance, Camila stopped.
Her fingers curled slowly.
She took a deep breath.
And she came back.
Each of her steps was firm against the marble floor. When she reentered the room, her gaze locked directly onto Helena. There was no explosive rage—only a dangerous calm.
"Running away?" Camila repeated. "Is that what you tell your 'dear husband'?"
Helena held her stare.
"Let her remember something," Camila continued. "You're the one who always runs. Every time you can't beat me."
The atmosphere thickened.
Dmitri let out a nasal laugh.
"You still think this is a personal competition."
"No," Camila replied. "It's a pattern. Whenever you can't impose yourself, you hide behind speeches, behind others… behind him."
Dmitri shot up from his chair, slamming his palm on the table.
"That's enough!" he shouted. "I won't tolerate your disrespect."
Romeo reacted instantly.
He grabbed one of the untouched plates in front of him and, without thinking, hurled it forcefully toward the center of the table. The plate shattered into pieces, porcelain scattering violently in front of Helena and Dmitri.
The crash was deafening.
"Don't you ever raise your voice at my wife again!" Romeo roared, revealing a look no one had seen from him before. "Ever."
Helena stood abruptly and stepped back, startled. Dmitri clenched his jaw, his face flushed with anger.
"Are you threatening me?" he spat.
"I'm daring you to show respect," Romeo replied. "Because if you cross that line again, words won't be what comes next."
For the first time, the patriarch stood.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam the table.
He didn't need to.
"Enough," he said.
Silence fell instantly.
"This has stopped being a formal discussion," he continued, "and has become a circus unworthy of the Xentras name."
He looked sharply at Dmitri.
"Your comment was unnecessary and provocative."
Then at Romeo.
"Your reaction, while understandable, has no place at this table."
Finally, his eyes rested on Camila and Helena.
"Do not mistake this," he said. "This is not a dispute between sisters. Not a battle of egos or a pile of old resentments."
He walked slowly around the table, his presence imposing.
"This is not the main issue," he concluded firmly. "This is about the future of the family."
Silence reclaimed the room—heavy and absolute.
And this time, no one dared break it.