"He's right." My voice is rough. "About all of it."
"I know."
We sit in silence. Her phone buzzes—probably her dad checking in already.
"I talked to Ben too," she says. "The Beta from the program. He thought I was dead. They all did. They canceled the final performance because I never showed up."
My jaw tightens but I nod. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
The question isn't accusing. Just... curious. Like she genuinely wants to know if I'm capable of remorse for destroying something that meant so much to her.
"Yeah. I'm sorry you had to make those calls. I'm sorry we put you in a position where you had to choose between dying and staying with us. I'm sorry for all of it."
"But you'd do it again."
Would I? A week ago, the answer would have been immediate. Of course. To save her life, I'd do anything.
But now...
"To save your life? Yeah. I would." I look at her. "But I'd do it differently. I'd give you choices. I'd treat you like a person, not a possession. I'd—" I stop. Shake my head. "It doesn't matter. We can't go back."
"Does that make you a monster?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." I meet her eyes. "But at least I'm an honest monster now."
"Is that better or worse?"
"I don't know that either."
Her phone buzzes again. She looks down, reads something. Shows me.
Dad:Called the police. Told them you're safe, with friends, that it was a misunderstanding. They weren't happy but they've called off the search. Marcus from the program called too. I told him you're dealing with a family medical emergency. He understood. Said your spot is open if you want to come back.
Dad:I don't like this, Vespera. But I trust you. You're your mother's daughter—stubborn and smart and too brave for your own good. Just please be careful. And call me tomorrow morning. I need to hear your voice.
Stephanie:Your dad told me you're okay. Thank god. I'm still in Columbus. Still here if you need anything. I know you don't want to talk to me but I'm not leaving until I know you're really safe.
I read them. Watch guilt flash across my face in ways I can't hide anymore.
"They love you," I say quietly. "A lot of people love you."
"I know."
"And we took you away from them."
"Yeah."
The weight of that sits between us. All those people who care about her, who are worried sick, who had to be told lies to keep them from tearing the world apart looking for her.
"I don't know how to make that right," I admit.
"You can't." She takes the phone back. "But you can try not to make it worse. You can keep giving me space. Keep the cameras off. Keep trying to be better than what you were."
"And if it's not enough?"
"Then I'll die hating you. But at least I'll know you tried."
