Alexander didn’t move.
Neither did I.
The file was still in my hands, its weight disproportionate to the paper it contained. He watched it the way someone watches a loaded weapon—careful, alert, painfully aware of consequence.
“That’s not what you think,” he repeated, slower this time.
I finally looked at him.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I said.
He closed the door behind him, the click loud in the quiet room. His eyes never left mine. Not the file. Me. As if anchoring himself there would keep everything else from unraveling.
“Put it down,” he said gently.
“No.”
The word landed cleanly.
His jaw tightened. “Seraphina—”
“You don’t get to manage this,” I interrupted. “You don’t get to choreograph my reaction.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and brittle.
I g
