Chapter 7 - The Exodus
"Papa!" Sofiyka cried softly.
She let go of my wet sleeve and threw her tiny arms around Maksym's neck.
Maksym closed his eyes, burying his face in her hair for a long second. "I've got you, my little sun," he whispered into her curls. "I'm sorry I was late."
He stood up smoothly, lifting Sofiyka into his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder, perfectly safe, perfectly dry.
"Are you hurt?" he asked me, his eyes scanning my face, checking my shoulder where I had hit the stone.
"No," I said, my voice steady for the first time all evening. "Just cold."
"Let's go home," he said softly.
He didn't look back at the room. He didn't gloat. He didn't need to. True power doesn't require a victory lap.
He placed his hand firmly on the small of my back, guiding me through the sea of shocked, silent guests. The crowd parted for us like the Red Sea. People who had laughed at me five minutes ago were now staring at the floor, terrified to even make eye contact with Maksym Haiduk.
As we walked down the center aisle, passing the lavish floral arrangements and the weeping bride, my mother called out one last time.
"You can't just leave us like this!" she cried, her voice cracking, completely devoid of her usual polished venom. "We are your blood!"
I stopped. Maksym paused beside me, waiting patiently, giving me the floor.
I turned my head and looked at my mother, standing amidst the shattered glass of her champagne flute. I looked at my sister, sobbing over her ruined dress and her ruined future. I looked at my father, who was staring at the torn contract on the floor as if trying to figure out how to tape it back together.
"You said it yourself, Mother," I replied, my voice echoing clearly across the dead silent terrace. "I don't belong in this family."
May you like
I turned back to my husband and my daughter.
We walked out through the grand floral arch. The heavy doors of the restaurant closed behind us, shutting away the crystal lights, the fake orchids, and the toxic legacy I was finally free from.
