Her eyes widen in wounded innocence—too clean to be real. “You think everything is a transaction.”
I lean forward. “It is.”
Something shifts—irritation, like she hates being seen too clearly.
“Fine,” Iris says. “Yes. I want access.”
I blink. “Oh. Honesty. Cute.”
“I want to be close to you,” she says, firm now. “Because you have power. And because you’re the only person on earth who won’t look at me like I’m sick.”
“Are you sick?” I ask.
Her smile snaps back into place. “Depends who’s asking.”
“I’m asking.”
“And I’m answering,” Iris says lightly. “I’m fine.”
“Fine people don’t write letters like that,” I say. “Fine people don’t drop into my orbit with secrets and a tone.”
Her fingers drum once on the table. “You think you’re the only one who can play a game.”
“Are we playing?”
Her eyes gleam. “Aren’t we always?”
The server returns with my coffee. Iris waits until she’s gone, then says, almost casual, “You mentioned someone in one of your interviews. The Watcher.”
My hand stills on the cup.
I keep my voice flat. “What about them?”
Iris watches me like she’s waiting for a twitch. “I think it’s funny you’re bothered by an anonymous voice with a microphone.”
“I’m not bothered.”
“Mm.” She nods slowly. “Sure.”
I lean in, my smile gentle in the way a scalpel is gentle. “Are you The Watcher?”
Her expression holds for one full second—too still. Then she laughs.
Not warm. Not amused. A laugh like she’s trying on a sound.
“I could be,” she says. “Wouldn’t that be delicious?”
My throat tightens. I swallow it down.
“You’re unstable,” I say softly.
Her smile widens. “That’s not a denial.”
“I didn’t deny anything,” I say. “I asked.”
Iris tilts her head, mirroring me. Copying. “You don’t like not knowing, do you?”
“I don’t,” I admit.
