The word landed sharper than the rest.
Hate.
It shouldn't have struck so deep—not after everything, not after all the careful walls and illusions and distance she'd crafted like armor around a ghost. But it did. Not because it was accurate. Not because it was wrong.
But because it was so close.
Her expression didn't change. Not visibly. Not in the way he'd be able to read—unless he was far, far more dangerous than she already suspected. The only giveaway was the stillness. That breath too long in her chest. That blink that didn't come when it should have.
'Is it really that easy to see?'
'Does he already know?'
She looked at him, studied the lines of his face. Not the performative ones—the smirk, the tilt, the cultivated arrogance—but what sat beneath. The way his shoulders hung, too relaxed. The faint crease near his temple where calculation replaced instinct. The way his lips held a smile but his brow hadn't joined the joke.
No.
He didn't know.
Not yet.
