I swallow. My throat feels tight, heat curling low again—annoyance, I insist.
“He still has everything,” I say. “Money. Status. A team that treats him like a religion.”
“Maybe he doesn’t,” Clara says quietly.
I turn to her. “Explain.”
She sets her glass down with deliberate care. “Power isn’t just resources. It’s freedom of movement. Autonomy. And right now? He doesn’t have that.”
“Because of a picture?” I scoff.
“Because of what it triggers,” Clara says. “Speculation. Pressure. Control. This is leverage. A picture like this gets used as leverage.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
I think of him in the lecture hall. Watching. Measuring. My pulse skips—sharp and irritating.
“He still put himself in that position,” I say. “Whatever happened—it’s his mess.”
“Maybe,” Genny says, zooming in on the comments. “But it’s escalating. They’re not just talking about the car. They’re dragging his father. The foundation. It’s turning feral.”
“Good,” I say, taking a hard sip of tequila.
It burns all the way down.
“That’s what happens when you live above consequences.”
Maya snorts. “You’re terrifying tonight.”
“I’m honest.”
“You’re angry,” Clara corrects. “About Milan. About doors closing. And you want this to mean something.”
The words land clean. Precise. My fingers tighten around the glass.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I’m pointing out the distortion,” she says calmly. “You hate mob logic. Tonight, you’re leaning on it.”
I look away. At the sketchbook. At the cage. My pulse bangs loud in my ears.
She’s right.
I hate that more than anything else.
“So what,” I say. “You want me to defend him?”
“No,” Maya says. “I want you to hold off on deciding.”
“It feels decided,” Talia says softly.
I meet her gaze. “You think he did it.”
“I think something broke,” she replies. “And broken things don’t get fixed by shouting.”
Silence settles. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space.
My body feels wound tight—too aware of itself, too aware of the memory of his voice, his attention, the way he never backs off when I push.
