He doesn’t look shocked.
Not angry, not even surprised.
Just… still. Like he’s been standing there a while. Like he watched me peel through every piece of his dirty truth and let it happen.
“You done?” he asks.
His voice is smooth—deceptively calm. But there’s something in the way he’s standing. Hands in his pockets, shoulders too still, eyes too dark.
I force my fingers off the folder and turn to face him fully. “You lied.”
“I didn’t lie,” he says. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Oh, well, in that case—” I laugh once, sharp and cold. “Let’s celebrate your honesty with a bottle of champagne.”
He steps forward slowly, boots silent on the wood floor. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”
“Then don’t lock me in a house full of locked doors and expect me to play nice.”
“I didn’t
