For a long second, the restaurant held its breath. Honey‑colored bulbs hummed. Cutlery paused mid‑air. Sarah kept her gaze on the ring of water blooming around the toppled glass and told herself not to give the room a story.
The room took one anyway.
“Sarah." Owen's voice slid through the hush with that practiced warmth he wore like a tuxedo. He took, in a single sweep, the soaked shine in Lisa's hair, the ribbon stuck to her cheek, the damp kneel on hardwood. He didn't ask a question. His hand went to Lisa's shoulder, possessive as a claim. “What are you doing to her?"
Sarah didn't answer. She watched the water keep spreading, clear as truth and just as inconvenient.
Owen drew Lisa up, folding her behind him like a rescued thing, then turned on Sarah with a frown polished to look like
