James lay awake until the ceiling stopped pretending to be a ceiling and started being a blank spreadsheet he couldn't balance. He replayed the jewelry store like bad security footage—Harrison's hand on his wrist, the word fiancée, the way Evelyn didn't flinch. He told himself it was theater. He told himself she'd rehearsed it with Harrison. He told himself she'd always liked to test him.
At four, he finally slept. At six, his phone started screaming.
He sat up, grabbed it, and saw a notification flood: mentions, messages, news alerts. He opened one. A gossip account had posted a carousel: candid shots at Lévant; a grainy clip of Harrison saying, “My fiancée said no"; and screenshots of private messages—his—between him and Grace. Pet names. Promises. Photos cropped to context and hunger.
