Chapter 53:


    She walked over to Effie, scooped her up into her arms, and carried her toward the car.


    “Does it hurt?” Isolde asked softly.


    “A lot,” Effie sniffled into her shoulder, her small body trembling. “But you were scary, Mommy.”


    “Good,” Isolde said, kissing her cheek. “Sometimes you have to be scary to keep the monsters away.”


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    She put Effie in the car. She pulled out her phone and texted Harper.


    Isolde: The situation at St. Jude’s escted. File the emergency motion now.


    The air in the school courtyard was thick, heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and the metallic tang of adrenaline.


    Isolde stood her ground. Her chest heaved — not from exertion, but from the sheer force of the rage she was suppressing. Across from her, Belle Escobar smoothed the front of her pastel dress, her fingers trembling as she adjusted her cor. She looked like a porcin doll that had been dropped and hastily glued back together.


    Isolde turned and took Effie’s hand to lead her to the car. The immediate confrontation was over; extraction was the priority. But as she reached for the handle of the Volvo, a furious shout cut through the air.


    Kaiden was red-faced. He looked at his mother, then at Isolde, and finally at Effie, who was clutching her bleeding knee while leaning against the car door.


    “You hurt my mom!” Kaiden screamed.


    He didn’t run to Belle. He ran at Effie.


    He was fast, fueled by a spoiled child’s unchecked entitlement. He raised a fist, his face twisted into a snarl that looked far too old for a five-year-old.


    Effie flinched. She curled into herself, throwing her hands over her head. It was a reflex — a muscle memory carved into her small body by months of silent torment in a penthouse that was supposed to be a home.


    Isolde’s heart stopped. Then it restarted with a violent thud.


    “Effie, look at me!” Isolde’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Don’t hide!”


    Effie froze. She peeked through her fingers. She saw her mother standing there — not the woman who cried in the bathroom, but a tower of ck-d steel. Isolde’s eyes were burning.


    “If someone hits you,” Isolde said, her voice low and dangerous, “you hit them back. Hard.”


    Kaiden’s fist came down.


    This time, Effie didn’t close her eyes.


    She shifted her weight. She didn’t use technique; she used pure, desperate instinct. She shoved both hands against Kaiden’s chest.


    It was a release of kic energy she had been storing for five years.


    Kaiden stumbled back. His expensive loafers slipped on the wet grass. He iled, arms windmilling, before hended hard on his backside in a puddle of muddy water.


    Ssh.


    Mud sttered up his pristine St. Jude’s uniform, coating his legs, his hands, his shocked face.


    Silence descended on the courtyard. Absolute, suffocating silence.


    The quiet girl who drew rockets and folded paper stood panting, her hands still outstretched.


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