Page 513 of Bad Prince

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“Yes,” I say. “Actually.”

He goes quiet again.

I know that silence now too.

The one where he recalibrates because the script in his head no longer matches the daughter on the line.

So I give him the truth before he can fill the gap with some version of me that is younger or weaker or easier to protect than I really am.

In Spanish, slow and steady:

“Tengo tu sangre, Papá. Y hay acero en ella.”

I have your blood, Papa. And there’s steel in it.

That lands.

I feel it land through the silence.

My voice stays calm.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” he asks, quieter now but no less intense.

“Yes.”

A beat.

Then I say the hardest part.

“I love him.”

The words don’t tremble.

Not even a little.

Because they’re true enough to stand on.

Another silence.

Longer.

Then, very softly, very carefully dangerous:

“¿Desde cuándo?”

Since when?

I look down at the bracelet on my wrist, the dark blue enamel flashing once in the hallway light.

“Years,” I say.

“I’ve known him for years,” I go on. “And these past few months he showed me more character than some men show in a lifetime.”

Emmanuel says nothing. So I keep going.

“We didn’t rush into this,” I say. “If anything, we both tried very hard to avoid it. To outrun it. To pretend it was something else.”

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