MARGARET POV
I have seen women collapse before. In ballrooms, under chandeliers heavy with borrowed light. In hospital rooms that smelled of antiseptic and denial. In drawing rooms where silence was sharper than accusation.
Lavender Brooks collapses differently, not with drama, not with spectacle, she folds.
One moment she is standing pale, trembling, stubbornly upright, and the next her knees simply give way, as if her body has finally decided it can no longer carry what her mind has been forcing it to endure. I am closer to her than Alex is.
That is important. I catch the exact moment her eyes lose focus, the sharp intake of breath she never releases. The way her hand moves instinctively toward her abdomen, protective even in unconsciousness.
Alex says her name, once, then louder. B
