Esme's patience had finally snapped, and Arabella could see it in every sharp movement, every flare of her nostrils, and every spark of her eyes.
She no longer cared about disguising the truth, about keeping her intentions veiled behind polite politeness or false concern.
It was almost reckless, the way she moved and spoke, as if she had forgotten or outright dismissed all pretense.
Arabella's brow furrowed, and she studied Esme carefully. This wasn't just jealousy. at least, it couldn't be. Jealousy alone didn't make someone so frantic, so careless, so willing to risk exposure by letting the truth slip.
No, there was something deeper driving Esme, a fear or urgency that she couldn't mask even if she wanted to. And Arabella realized, slowly, that it wasn't just Esme who was racing against the clock. They weren't the only ones trying to manipulate time; Esme and Morpheus were running their own game, running toward some hidden goal that Arabella didn't yet understand.
