EMMALINE
The powder room gleams like the rest of the restaurant, too polished, too perfect, all white marble and gilded mirrors that multiply my reflection until I feel small beneath their endless gaze. The chandeliers above scatter golden light, sharp and cold, as though even beauty here has edges that can cut. Clarissa is already at the sink, leaning toward the mirror, a folded tissue in hand as she dabs carefully at her lips. Her eyes catch mine in the glass.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The sound of running water fills the silence, soft and steady, like it is trying to give us cover, like it is buying us both time. Then her mouth curves, not into the wide, public smile she wore at the table, but into something smaller, something closer to real. Probably the most genuine e
