I walk toward her, stepping into the circle of her workspace. I don’t stop until my boots are inches from her knees. Aggressive. A boundary violation dressed as urgency.
She doesn’t flinch.
She tilts her head back, exposing the long line of her throat, and stares up at me like I’m a math problem she hasn’t solved yet.
“That’s your problem,” she says. “Not mine.”
“It’s yours the second you’re seen with me.”
“Then I won’t be seen with you.” She reaches to close her sketchbook. “Problem solved.”
I drop to a crouch before she can shut me out. Fast. Controlled. I plant one hand on the floor beside her hip, boxing her in—forcing her to either retreat or hold her ground.
She holds.
Deliberate.
She plants her palm flat on the floor by her own thigh, anchoring herself like a choice, not a corner. Her chin lifts a fraction, gaze locked on mine like she’s daring me to pretend I’m the only one with control in this aisle.
“You’re already in the frame, Zoë,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You were seen leaving the studio with me this morning. People are connecting dots.”
Her eyes narrow. “So?”
“So the narrative is forming,” I say. “Right now, you’re the innocent bystander. Give it twenty-four hours and you’re the accomplice. The girl who helped the rich kid cover it up.”
She lets out a sharp, incredulous breath. “You think I care what they think I am?”
I hold the stare. “You care about your future.”
Her mouth tightens.
“Milan. Access.”
That lands.
I see it in the slight stiffening of her shoulders—irritation, not fear. Calculation, not collapse.
“You’re threatening me,” she says.
“I’m negotiating.”
“There’s a difference,” she snaps.
“Close enough.”
I lean in closer. The smell of her hits me—rain, graphite, something sharp and expensive. It cuts through the stale air of the aisle like a blade through fog.
“You want to know what the price is?” I ask. “The price is you stop pretending you’re immune. You’re already in the crosshairs.”
Her gaze goes colder. Older.
“You think I don’t know how this ends for women?” she says quietly. “I’ve watched the same system turn ‘near’ into ‘guilty’ faster than it takes a man to deny it.”
Good.
There she is.
“Or I could walk away,” she adds, voice dropping, matching my tone.
