“I’m going to grab a bottle of water,” I lied.

Isabela looked up at me, her eyes tracking mine as though she already knew the lie wore another woman’s name.

I walked toward the window.

Gabriela turned, her body reacting before her voice could, and pulled the little girl closer against her chest — not in fear, but with that instinctual maternal firmness that puts protection before questions.

“Evander,” she said.

Hearing my name in her voice hurt worse than any insult.