She ran.
Three frantic steps out the door — bare feet slapping cold tile, racing suit zipped all the way to her waist, her boobs open for a view — and she nearly collided with them like a freight train derailing into destiny.
Luna and Peter.
Right there in the narrow corridor between the two changing rooms.
Her daughter's hand rested lightly on his arm, looking up at him with that soft, private glow, both of them laughing at something intimate, something coded in a language Maria didn't speak and sure as hell wasn't invited to learn.
Maria's body reacted faster than her brain could file for bankruptcy. She threw herself sideways, spine slamming flat against the interior wall, hand flying up to slap firmly over her own mouth as if a single exhale might scream her sins to the entire estate.
The door stayed cracked open — no time to close it, no time for anything but the miracle of surgical reflexes turning a full sprint into a dead stop in under a second.
