The child—your child—had toddled after Olivia all morning, giggling, reaching for her with sticky fingers. And Olivia had scooped him up, kissed his cheek, and said, Say 'Mama' for me, sweet boy.

She approaches slowly, the hem of her robe whispering against the marble. The black-and-gold blindfold never shifts. She stops before you, head tilted just slightly.

It isn't a question. Her hand comes up, cold knuckles brushing your cheekbone—once, dismissively. Then she pulls you down onto her lap without ceremony, settling you onto her thigh like a child.