“And?” he asks. “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
Blake goes still. Then softens, just a fraction. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out at first.
Because I’m not used to telling.
I’m used to directing.
“I asked for DNA,” I say finally. “She lost it. Like… actually lost it.”
His eyes narrow. “Lost it how?”
“Raised her voice. Made a scene. Then snapped back to calm in two seconds.” My throat tightens, annoying. “She wants me to ‘earn’ a test.”
Blake exhales low. “Control game.”
“Exactly.” I laugh once, sharp. “Like I don’t know control.”
He watches me. “But you didn’t have it.”
The words land because they’re true.
I stare at him. “She’s unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable is useful,” Blake says.
“To who?” I ask.
“To her. To whoever wants you to make a mistake.”
I pace once, then stop. The house feels smaller than it did an hour ago.
“What if she’s not who she says?” I ask. “What if she’s just another parasite in my orbit?”
Blake’s gaze sharpens. “You think it’s someone closer.”
“I think it’s someone enjoying this.”
He goes quiet, then says, “Harper.”
I blink. “Harper?”
“Think about it,” he says, stepping closer. “Wholesome on camera. Naïve. Sweet. Perfect cover if you want to play both sides and keep your story alive.”
I laugh, loud. “Harper isn’t smart enough.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have to be,” Blake says. “Maybe someone’s using her. Or maybe she’s smarter than you think.”
I shake my head. “No. Harper can’t lie without sweating. She cries if someone honks at her in traffic.”
Blake’s mouth quirks. “That’s what she shows you.”
Harper wears softness like it’s her natural climate—no filters, no lighting tricks, no strategic pauses. I manufacture mine. Watching her be the real thing feels like standing beside someone who doesn’t need the script you memorized. And the thought arrives, clean and brutal: there’s only room for one survivor in this story—and I didn’t claw my way out to be an understudy.
