(Isobel's Point Of View)
"I was afraid—"
"Of what? That I'd be angry? Well, congratulations. I'm furious."
Etienne stepped closer. Phones bloomed like black flowers in hands; the low, constant hum of recording apps filled the air. Someone's stiletto clicked on marble. A distant elevator dinged; breath and static pooled in the lobby like a heat mirage.
"Everything about you is a lie!"
"Not everything." He moved closer. Too close. I could feel the faint heat of him, the tiny hitch in his shoulders when he stopped. "My feelings for you are real. They've always been real."
"I don't believe you."
"Then believe the evidence." He gestured to the scattered papers on the floor. The pages lay like pale, splayed wings — contracts, notes, a photograph half covered in a corner. "Your stepmother knew the helicopter was unsafe. It was her fault, and she blamed me for your death for ages."
