For a split second, I considered refusing. Staying in the hallway. Forcing answers immediately.
But Sabine’s small fingers were still wrapped around his leg.
And whatever else Rose had done—whatever secrets she’d kept—this child deserved to be protected from adult detonations.
I stepped inside.
Kane followed.
The apartment smelled like something warm and sweet—vanilla, maybe. Breakfast lingering in the air. There were toys neatly arranged along one wall. A small backpack by the door. Crayon drawings taped to the refrigerator in the open kitchen.
A life.
A real, domestic, everyday life.
Certainly not the hotel-room existence we’d assumed Rose had been living. Not even the Paris apartment existence I thought she’d been living.
My eyes moved automatically, cataloging details. A framed photo on a side table caught my attention.
Rose.
Laughing.
Holding Sabine as a baby.
Étienne beside them, hand on Rose’s back.
Happy.
Undeniably happy.
My breath left me in a rush.
She hadn’t just fallen into something reckless.
She had chosen this.
Chosen him.
Chosen motherhood.
Chosen silence.
“Why?” I asked, my voice softer now. Less accusation. More bewilderment.
Étienne’s shoulders slumped slightly.
“She was afraid.”
Of what?
My brain immediately leapt to the notebook. To the warnings. To the tracking.
But his next words were simpler.
“She said your parents would never accept it. That they would try to bring her home. That they would call it irresponsible. That they would say she ruined her life.”
The words landed with uncomfortable accuracy.
