Something in Morpheus stalled so abruptly it was almost visible, like a mechanism grinding to a halt inside him. The moment Esme's words settled in the air, that Arabella had already seen the face she wore, his expression froze, the confidence draining from his features as though it had never been there to begin with.
For the briefest second, the man who always appeared untouchable looked exposed, stripped bare by a truth that should never have reached him. Esme, kneeling before him, caught every fragment of that collapse, her breath hitching as she watched his composure crack in real time.
"I– it's a lie, isn't it?" Esme asked desperately, her voice trembling despite how hard she tried to steady it. She already knew the answer, or perhaps she feared she did, yet she still asked. Somewhere deep inside, a foolish hope lingered, that Morpheus would deny it, that he would laugh it off, that he would tell her Arabella was delusional.
