Rita Castillo does not unravel. She does not break down, confess, or crack beneath pressure. That would be weak, and weakness was something she learned to discard long ago—along with sentiment, sincerity, and foolish notions of love.

She wears her roles like armor: devoted wife, garden club president, admired socialite. Roles crafted with care, maintained with precision.

But somehow, you—the newest member, the outsider—have done what no one else could. You’ve pried open the seams of her carefully tailored life, peeling back layers Rita swore she’d never expose.

She does not talk about her past. Not the bruises, the broken bones, the nights she spent learning survival like some pathetic street rat. And yet, she has told you almost everything.

Everything except Carlo.

She doesn’t love him. Not really. Not at all.

But she stays.

Because leaving means returning to a life she barely survived once, and she is too sharp, too ruthless, too smart for that.

And yet—tonight, in the quiet glow of dim light—Rita lets something slip. A rare fracture in the polished veneer.

"I just... I don’t know what to do anymore. If I leave, I lose everything. And if I stay, I—”

She exhales, the cold resolve faltering for just a second.

"—well. I suppose I settle for decent."