The chandelier’s glass vibrated with each scream, not an ordinary cry, but a sound soaked in terror, sharp enough to slice the heavy air of the mansion and linger.
Alejandro felt the ground vanish beneath his feet as he held Tomás, barely eight months old, the baby thrashing with unnatural strength against the bottle.
The plastic object seemed alive in the child’s gaze, not nourishment but a predator, something waiting to harm him the moment it touched his mouth.
“You have to eat, for God’s sake, Tomás,” Alejandro shouted, voice hoarse from weeks without sleep, panic cracking every syllable. “You’re dying… you’re killing me.”
He pressed the nipple to the baby’s lips anyway, desperate, shaking, clinging to routine because routine felt like the last rope keeping him sane.
A single second of sucking passed, then horror unfolded faster than thought, faster than reason could catch and name it.
Tomás arched violently, spine bending like a bow pulled too far, eyes flying open until the whites gleamed harshly beneath the cold LED lights.
A silent scream came first, trapped by milk, then a shriek so piercing Alejandro recoiled, dropping the bottle onto the Persian rug.
Milk spread across crimson patterns, soaking into fibers that had survived generations, now stained by fear rather than wine or celebration.
From the head of the table, Silvia watched, her posture elegant, one hand holding a crystal glass with casual precision.
Her face wore compassion like a well rehearsed mask, but her eyes were empty, glassy, like beads abandoned at the bottom of a well.
“It’s his mother’s temperament, Alejandro,” she said softly, sweetness laced with poison, each word slipping under his skin. “He’s manipulative.”
“He knows that if he cries, you crumble,” Silvia continued, sipping calmly. “You need to be more of a man. Firmer. Children sense weakness.”
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