Chapter 6

The apartment felt different when we got home. It was the same space—the same high ceilings, the same floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city—but the air was charged with the weight of the conversation we were about to have.

Jonah made us both tea, the way he always did on difficult nights. He set the mugs on the coffee table and sat across from me in the leather armchair, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on mine.

"Tell me everything," he said.

So I did.

I told him about the gala, about feeling dizzy, about checking myself into the hospital. I told him about Selene appearing in my room, the vase in her hand, the accusation she'd thrown. The attack. The IV pole. The paper that had fallen from her clutch.

I didn't spare myself. I told him about the fear, the confusion, the cold, sharp anger that had crystallized in my chest. I told him about the plan I'd made, the strings I'd pulled, the evidence I'd gathered.

I told him about the diner. The park bench. The dinner.

He listened without interrupting, his face unreadable, his tea untouched. When I fell silent, he sat for a long moment in the quiet of the apartment.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was rough, scraped raw.

"Because I didn't know what you'd do." I looked down at my hands, wrapped around my own mug. "I didn't know whose side you'd take. And I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk her hurting the baby."

"You think I'd have chosen her over you?"

"I didn't know," I repeated. "You never told me about her, Jonah. I had to find out from a bank statement that fell out of her clutch. I didn't know she was your ex. I didn't know she was still in love with you. I didn't know anything, and you kept it that way."

The words hung in the air between us. I saw his jaw tighten, his knuckles whiten around his mug.