Naked.
Final.
The entire table goes silent.
The world does too.
Tristan exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face.
Then he goes still. His eyes move to me.
Not angry.
Not soft.
Assessing.
“Is that true?”
The question should offend me.
Instead it wrecks me further.
Because he’s not asking whether I’m in love with him.
He’s asking whether what Stella said is true.
Whether I came to him first as strategy.
Whether my mother’s ugly little voice poisoned the beginning.
I shake my head so hard it hurts.
“I—” My mouth won’t work right. “It didn’t start like—okay maybe she said things, maybe I noticed you because—because of what you were, but it’s not like that anymore, Tristan, I swear?—”
He lifts one hand.
Not harsh.
Not cruel.
But enough to stop me.
“Isa.”
Just my name.
Firm.
Grounding.
Not mine.
My chest caves in around it.
“You don’t get to build something real on something that started like that,” he says.
There’s no room left in me.
