The final course had long gone cold, but Vivienne's voice still lingered—soft, persistent, trying to peel layers off her son that he had no intention of shedding.
"So many changes," she murmured, cradling her wine glass without drinking from it. "Even your eyes… they're different now."
Damien gave a noncommittal hum, more focused on swirling the remnants of his drink than unpacking her implications. She wanted answers—wanted to make sense of what Erin had done, what he had become, and more than that, what he had seen. But Damien had learned early that some truths only grew more dangerous when spoken aloud.
Vivienne's expression dimmed as the silence stretched, but she didn't push further. Eventually, she leaned back in her seat and exhaled.
"Well," she said, as if trying to convince herself, "at least you're eating again."
The dinner ended not with ceremony, but with a quiet settling of plates and an exchange of glances that said everything and nothing at once.
