Irina's POV
Caitlyn's confident mask shattered the moment my piercing stare met hers.
"I'm her mother," she shot back defensively. "Why would I hurt her?"
"Mother?" I let out a bitter laugh, rolling up Tilda's sleeve without warning. "You call yourself that?"
Her arm was a canvas of violence—bruises in every shade of purple and yellow, each mark telling its own brutal story.
"If you're supposed to be caring for Tilda," I snapped, my voice cutting through the sterile air, "then explain this."
I watched Caitlyn's composure crack. She knew if Tilda regained consciousness and started talking, her entire charade would collapse. She stepped toward me, trying to force me toward the door.
"This isn't your business," she hissed. "Leave now, or I'm calling security."
I carefully settled Tilda back onto the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin before turning to face her so-called mother. "I'm family. I heard she was sick and came to check on her. Got a problem with that?"
