“It means they are assessing him.”
“And you?”
I say nothing.
Her face changes. I see the exact moment she understands what I’m not saying. “You want to believe it.”
I set the pages down. “He’s my son.”
“And I was supposed to be his wife.”
The room goes quiet. I come around the desk slowly. She doesn’t step back.
Good. Bad.
Both.
“That contract was made before your father died,” I say.
“It was made before Dante killed him.”
I stop. She’s never said it to me so plainly. Not like that. Not as an allegation. As law.
Her chin lifts. “If he comes back changed, what happens?”
I don’t answer fast enough.
Her mouth curves, but there is no humor in it. “Does everyone forgive him because he cried in a chapel?”
“No.”
“Does the council decide remorse is useful?”
“Yes.”
That honesty costs me nothing. It costs her more. She looks toward the window. Counting, maybe. Window. Door. Balcony. Adjoining corridor. She’s always counting exits, even when she knows I own all of them.
Then she looks back. “And do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Decide I’m still his?”
Something in me goes very cold.
“No.” The answer leaves my mouth before calculation can finish.
Her eyes hold mine. I hear the implication at the same time she does.
No. Not his.
Then whose?
I let the silence remain because some answers become weaker when named too early.
Evie swallows once. “That isn’t an answer you can give if the contract still exists.”
“I can give any answer I choose.”
