“You said it was just the summit.”
“It was.”
“And then what?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Harper exhaled slowly.
“Your mom called me.”
Ice slid down my spine.
“She what?”
“She couldn’t get you. She said you didn’t answer. She sounded …” Harper hesitated. “… worried.”
That word felt foreign attached to my mother.
“She doesn’t get worried,” I said automatically.
“She did.”
Silence stretched between us.
I pictured my mother in that tidy Albany kitchen, fingers curled around a mug she didn’t drink from, staring at the clock and convincing herself she wasn’t overreacting.
She had always worried about reputation.
About image.
About control.
Maybe now she worried about something else.
“Did she say why?” I asked.
“No. Just that she hadn’t heard from you. And that you were in New York and she thought you might …” Harper hesitated again. “… be seeing someone.”
My stomach dipped.
“What?”
“She asked if I knew a man named Cassian.”
The room tilted.
I straightened slowly.
“No,” I said too quickly.
“Lia.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“I know you didn’t,” Harper replied softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”
My pulse thudded in my ears.
