"I told you, Seu João—"

And on the wall of her small bedroom, framed in cheap wood, is a single embroidery she made herself—crooked letters in bright red thread:

"Menina," Margarida said one afternoon, handing Clara a cup of chamomile tea. "Does he let you breathe?"

On the last day, Rodrigo took the stand. He looked at Clara—really looked at her—and for a moment, his mask slipped. "I loved you," he said, broken. "I gave you everything."

The first three months were a dream. Rodrigo called her ten times a day just to hear her voice. He left roses on her pillow, wrote her name on fogged-up bathroom mirrors, and deleted any male friend who "liked" her Instagram photos. Clara found it flattering. He cares, she thought. He’s just intense because he loves me.

The Glass Cage