Seeing that I was truly about to leave, Vino panicked. His tone softened immediately.
"Alright," he said. "I admit there was a misunderstanding between you and my parents today. I'll explain everything to them properly. Just come back with me first—let's not blow things out of proportion."
I didn’t respond. I simply kept walking.
The scorching summer sun beat down mercilessly, making me feel lightheaded. My lips were dry and chapped, on the verge of cracking. But I didn’t stop.
I thought back to when Vino first came to meet my parents. They had flat-out refused to approve of him.
But I was the one who insisted they give him a chance.
Vino knelt at our doorstep for three days and nights, swearing up and down that his intentions were pure. In the end, my parents reluctantly gave in—for my sake.
And now?
Now I realize just how clear-sighted they were.
I had chosen the wrong person.
Suddenly, a loud honk blared behind me. I jumped, startled.
A Porsche was speeding toward me—my car. Vino was driving.
I walked up to the vehicle, expression cold. “Give me back my car.”
Vino leaned out the window. “Misca, get in the car. Come back with me.”
“My mom knows she was wrong. She even slaughtered a pig and made tons of dishes just to apologize to you.”
I frowned. “No need. Just give me my car back.”
Vino insisted, “Misca, do you even know what it means when someone slaughters a pig here? It’s the most elaborate way to welcome a guest. If you don’t go back, it’ll be humiliating for my mother.”
The sun was making me dizzy and my patience had run out.
“She slaughtered a pig. And what does that have to do with me?” I snapped.
“She treats me like garbage and tells me to get out—and now that she’s cooked a few dishes, I should just go back?”
“She butchers a pig and suddenly expects everything to be fine?”
“Vino, you keep saying you love me. Is this how you show it?”
I pulled out a stack of cash from my bag, didn’t bother counting it and shoved it into his arms.
“Consider this payment for her pig, alright?”
“Now get out of the car. I’m driving myself home.”
Vino looked at me, eyes dark. After a long pause, he said quietly, “Are you really leaving?”
I nodded.
He gave a heavy sigh. “If you leave now, we’re over. Misca, think it through.”
I let out a cold laugh. “I already have.”
Vino was quiet for a beat, then said, “Fine. Get in. I’ll drive you back.”
“You’re not feeling well. You’ve been in the sun too long. It’s dangerous for you to drive like this.”
I hesitated for a moment. Then I got into the passenger seat.
My head was spinning from the heat. I grabbed a bottle of water, drank deeply and leaned back with my eyes closed, letting the air conditioning cool me down.
But less than ten minutes later, the car came to an abrupt stop.
I opened my eyes—and realized Vino had driven us straight back to his house.
He had tricked me again.
I immediately reached for the door, ready to get out, but Vino was already there. He opened the door and pulled me out.
“Misca,” he pleaded, “for the sake of all the years we’ve been together, can’t you just stop being so stubborn?”
He said this while dragging me toward his house.
He was stronger than me and his pace was fast. I stumbled several times trying to keep up, nearly falling.
As we entered the yard, I saw a crowd—men and women scattered across the courtyard, some standing, some squatting, all eating from bowls and chatting loudly.
Vino dragged me inside and pushed me toward a large table.
Several women sat there, smiling as if nothing had happened.
Deborah was among them. She glanced at me coldly, then went back to eating, completely ignoring me.
I turned to Vino.
“Is this the apology you were talking about?”
