If she said no — the scene continued. The slap was acknowledged. Her mother was the topic on everyone's lips by dinner.
If she said yes — she walked with Elena. She was managed.
She looked at the two men.
Who had taken one look at Elena's face during the pivot and had already decided they were leaving.
She watched them go.
The bulge in the taller one's trousers visible as he turned — the specific, frank evidence of twenty minutes spent watching Sofia's cleavage doing things cleavage does.
Elena had seen it.
Sofia watched Elena's eyes clock it and file it away with the efficiency of a woman maintaining a comprehensive ledger.
"...All right," Sofia said.
She followed.
Back through the garden, into the east corridor, the specific, half-step-behind position of someone who has been folded into another person's narrative and is still working out the terms.
Elena walked ahead.
