A tense silence had settled between them. The kind of silence that comes before a storm. The kind you breathe in reluctantly, knowing that whatever comes next can never be undone.
Hena was still staring at her cup. Her fingers wrapped tightly around it. She didn't look at Bérénice. She didn't need her eyes to feel her presence, that unbearable attention that clung to her like light on an open wound.
— "I guess I should start from the beginning," she said at last, her voice low, almost weary. "You want to know, right? Then I'll tell you."
Bérénice said nothing. Just a slight nod—quiet, respectful. She knew that one wrong word, one wrong move, and the door Hena had barely cracked open would slam shut for good.
— "My mother is a whore."
The words dropped, dry, blunt. No emotion in her voice. As if she were talking about the weather.
— "Not metaphorically. Not just a 'bad mom.' A real whore. A prostitute. I've known since I was a kid. I saw her come home drunk, covered in lipstick that wasn't hers, marks on her body. Sometimes bruises. Sometimes worse. And I was there. Just a little girl. In my room. Listening to the walls shake."
A bitter laugh slipped from her lips.
— "You know what it's like to be ashamed of your own mother? To be afraid of running into her clients in the street? To see her treated like shit and not be able to do a damn thing about it?"
Bérénice didn't reply. She looked down, respectfully. Her hot chocolate had gone cold. She wasn't touching it anymore.
— "And that's not all. I grew up in that. The alcohol. The yelling. Sometimes the blows. And then the rumors started. Middle school, I think. Some said I looked too much like her. That I'd end up just like her. One guy touched me in the stairwell. Just to test, you know? 'Like mother, like daughter,' he said."
She winced, her lips trembling, but her voice stayed steady.
— "I hit him. He cried. And still, I'm the one they called to the principal's office. Not him. Never him. Because me, I was already labeled."
She paused. For a long time. Then added, more softly:
— "I never had friends. Never trusted anyone. Then I came here. New school. New start? Bullshit. The rumors followed. Or maybe they just guessed. Doesn't matter. They're still here. Always."
She finally looked up. And for the first time, she stared straight into Bérénice's eyes.
— "So now that you know... what are you gonna do?"
Bérénice remained silent. It wasn't an awkward silence, nor the kind that tries to escape. It was a heavy silence, respectful, filled with everything you don't say when someone has just stripped their soul bare.
She took a slow breath, then placed her hands on the table, palms open. Not in prayer. More like an invitation—a way of saying: I'm here.
— "You know," she said at last, "what you just told me… it doesn't change anything."
Hena raised an eyebrow. Cynical. Defensive.
— "Of course it does. Everyone changes after hearing that. They look at me differently. Like I'm dirty. Or like I'm someone to pity. Sometimes both."
— "Not me."
Bérénice held her gaze, steady.
— "You think I'm going to get up, walk away, and erase you? You think I'll run off and tell everyone at school so they can talk even more shit behind your back?"
She leaned in slightly, like she was trying to close some invisible distance.
— "Hena… maybe I haven't lived what you've lived. But I've seen cruelty. Real cruelty. I've seen what it does to people—how it breaks them from the inside. And what I see in front of me is a girl who's still standing. Even if she thinks she's alone. Even if she hates the world. She's still standing. And for that alone, you deserve respect."
Hena lowered her eyes slightly. It wasn't relief. More like a confusion she didn't want to admit.
— "I don't want pity," she murmured.
— "It's not pity. It's a promise."
Bérénice smiled softly, without forcing it.
— "You told me you didn't need anyone. I believe you. But if one day you change your mind—if one day you wake up and want someone to just listen… I'll be there. Not as some savior. Just as a friend."
The silence returned, gentler this time. Hena took another sip of her coffee. It was lukewarm, almost bitter. But for once, she didn't mind the taste.
A strange thought stirred somewhere deep inside her:
What if… what if she was telling the truth?
Daniel – Scene
The sky had that dull gray hue that made everything look a little uglier than usual. Even the car's tinted windows couldn't hide the misery of the end of the day.
The chauffeur was already waiting by the gate, clean suit, polite smile. Always trying a bit too hard.
— How was your day, sir? Everything went well?
— Yeah. It was fine.
I got in the back seat without even looking at him.
— Your father asked me to bring you back as soon as possible today. He's having dinner with his two sons.
I raised an eyebrow.
— Are we celebrating something special?
What does he want from us now? I thought.
The chauffeur gave a small, forced smile.
— Doesn't he have the right to have dinner with his sons?
— I guess.
Even Ben will be there? Interesting.
We drove in silence. The tires glided over the asphalt with a kind of hypnotic rhythm. The kind of silence I could stand. The kind that didn't ask anything of me.
When we got to the house, I went straight up to change. Clean shirt. Neutral face. Then I headed down, hands in my pockets, to the dining room.
They were already there.
My father, sitting at the head of the long table. Three-piece suit, shiny watch, superiority carved into the wrinkles of his face. He sat upright, like he was about to announce a merger, not share a meal with his family.
And Ben, on the other side. The golden boy. Perfectly styled hair, clear eyes, smile always at the ready. Playing his role, as always.
I took my seat without a word.
The butler poured the wine. The atmosphere felt like a tense board meeting.
— I'm glad you're both here, our father said, staring into his glass, not really looking at us.
— That's rare, Ben said with a light laugh. I thought you were too busy for this sort of thing.
— You have to make time for family. Especially in important times.
I raised an eyebrow.
— Oh? Are we going through something important?
He glanced at me. Not angry. Just that dry fatigue he always carried like a cologne.
— Let's say times are changing. You need to be ready. One day, it'll be you two taking over.
Ben smiled, pleased to be part of the verbal inheritance. I stared at my empty plate.
— Don't worry, Father. Your company's in good hands, Ben said confidently.
— Maybe. But I'd like Daniel to get more involved.
I took a sip of wine, eyes still fixed on the bottom of the glass.
— You want me to get involved? In what? Your shareholder schemes or your perfect family image?
A silence fell. Cold. Sharp.
My father calmly set down his fork.
— You're smart, Daniel. Maybe even smarter than your brother. But intelligence without loyalty is worthless.
I smiled. Coldly, without warmth.
— And loyalty without love? What's that worth?
Ben looked at us, tense. Stuck between two worlds he wanted to please.
Our father stayed silent for a few seconds.
— I'm not asking you to love me. I'm asking you to be ready.
He finished his wine.
— The world won't show mercy to those who hesitate.
I looked down at my plate, still empty.
Neither will I.