The villa settled into an uneasy quiet after dinner.

Mr. and Mrs. Alexandrescu had retired early, but their presence still filled the halls. Sam remained downstairs longer than usual, performing the role of the corrected son. I went to my room, changed into a simple sleep shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off. Sleep did not come. The way his parents had spoken about the slap—like a logistics problem—kept turning over in my mind. No one had asked if I was hurt. No one had looked at me as if I mattered beyond the surface I was required to keep clean.

I needed air....