I blew lightly on the slice before taking a bite. The crust stretched, the cheese molten, the sauce hitting that perfect sweet-savory balance. A sound escaped me before I could stop it.
“Mmm. You’re right.” I swallowed. “This really is good.”
Damien’s smile widened. “Then I’ll take you there one day for lunch.”
Candace fanned her mouth dramatically. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, breath hot from too big a bite.
I frowned. “Why not?”
“Well, you two aren’t together-together.” She shrugged. “Plus—with the partnership thing? People might talk.”
Cold water, straight down my spine. People would talk. They always had. They’d take my name, turn it inside out, make it taste wrong in their mouths.
No daughter of mine will be a harlot.
The memory struck like someone had pulled a string tied to something buried deep. Twelve years old. Peach dress delicateas flower petals. His friends in the living room—beer bottles sweating on the table. Laughter that dipped, hardened, shifted. Eyes on me. Too heavy. Too long.
A whisper. A smirk. A hand around my arm.
What the hell are you wearing? Who do you think you are?
Peach fabric that had felt pretty an hour earlier suddenly felt obscene. Skin that didn’t fit. Words that branded deeper than skin.
Whore. Slut.
Laughter in the next room. A mirror later that night. Peach turned poison.
“Emma?”
Damien’s voice broke through the fog.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Zoned out. Just thinking about the pizza.”
His gaze hardened—just for a breath. He saw through the lie, heard the ghosts clawing at the back of my mind. But he didn’t press. He just turned back to his slice, taking another bite, his jaw working tighter than before.
“I say we watch a movie,” Candace declared, spinning in her chair like a cat chasing something shiny.
“What movie?”
She stared at me like I’d asked what planet we lived on. “You know the one.”
Damien looked between us, confused and already slightly afraid.
“I’m not sure Damien would approve,” I said, deadpan.
“His feelings don’t matter,” Candace shot back.
Damien attempted a frown and landed on a nod. “That’s… fair.”
Candace had already bounded into the living room, spinning once like she owned the place.
“She meansNew Moon,” I supplied.
He froze, slice hovering mid-air. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Candace called, already halfway to the living room. “Grab the wine, lover boy.”
His sigh was pure resignation. “You’re trying to kill me, Ms.Sinclair.”
