FORBIDDEN STRANGER

THEY ALWAYS TALK

16/70

By evening, it’s no longer a rumor.

It’s a discussion.

I know because my name starts showing up in places it shouldn’t — group chats I’m not part of, side glances that linger too long, conversations that stop when I get close enough to hear them finish.

Eric notices before I say anything.

“They’re watching,” he says under his breath as we step into the gallery opening. “Phones down. Eyes up.”

“Good,” I reply. “Means they want confirmation.”

The space is packed. Art on the walls, bodies too close together, voices overlapping in a way that makes everything feel louder than it should be. This is Camille’s terrain — social, curated, dangerous in how polished it looks.

And she’s here.

Of course she is.

She spots us almost immediately. Her smile doesn’t falter, but it sharpens —