"I don't trust you, Claude."
My words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and merciless. Claude Lockheart froze, his hand midway through ruffling his already-messy hair. His ever-present smirk was gone. For once, he looked serious. But I wasn't going to stop. Not this time.
"You want me to act like everything's fine now, but it's not. It's never been fine, Claude."
His lips parted as if he was about to speak, but I raised my hand to stop him. "Don't. Just listen."
He sat back against the sofa, his arms crossed, but his eyes—those sharp, persistent eyes—never left me.
"Do you remember what you said about me in high school?" I asked, my voice bitter. "No, of course you don't. It was nothing to you. Just a careless sentence that slipped out of your mouth."
Claude frowned, clearly confused.
