Davi leans toward Bianca, whispering with a smirk you can almost taste.
“Watch,” he murmurs. “She’ll cry. She always cried.”
Bianca smiles like a woman who’s never had to earn her cruelty, only inherit it.
The guests shift in their seats, uncomfortable but curious, like they’re about to watch a train wreck with premium seating.
The band waits for a cue.
Lídia shakes her head once.
“No band,” she says softly, and the sound system picks it up, sending it through the ballroom like a clean blade.
A ripple runs through the crowd, because people can sense when a script is being stolen from the director.
She closes her eyes.
And then she begins.
Her voice doesn’t come out fragile.
It comes out quiet, yes, but quiet like a match in a dark room.
A single note, held with a control that makes the hair on your arms lift.
It’s the kind of voice that reminds everyone she didn’t lose her gift to sickness, she lost her patience for pretending.
She sings the first line of “Still I Breathe,” and it lands in the room like a confession nobody can interrupt.
Not a romantic melody.
Not a song meant to flatter a bride.
It’s a song that tells the truth so gently it becomes impossible to argue with.
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