Door opening.
Light shifting.
I sat across from Bea, Rafael at the head of the table like it had been arranged that way on purpose, his posture easy, his attention not.
Bea hadn’t taken her coat off right away. It still hung on her shoulders, one hand gripping the edge of it at her collarbone like she’d forgotten it was there. When she finally slid itfree, the movement was too quick, too deliberate, like she’d caught herself holding onto something she shouldn’t have.
Her eyes didn’t come to me. She focused on the menu instead, even though she hadn’t opened it yet, her thumb tracing the edge of the paper in a slow, repetitive motion that didn’t match the rest of her.
Controlled everywhere else.
Unraveling in places she thought no one could see.
I watched all of it.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t interrupt.
Because if I opened my mouth now…Not here. Not right now.
A server appeared at the edge of the table, voice bright, practiced, asking about drinks, about specials, about things that didn’t matter.
Bea answered for all of us.
“Water for now,” she responded, smooth, composed, already back in the version of herself the world understood. “We’ll order in a minute.”
The server nodded, stepping away, leaving the three of us sitting in something that didn’t have a name yet but was already tightening.
Rafael leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the back of his chair, his gaze moving between us in quiet, deliberate passes that didn’t miss anything.
“You’ve made quite an impression,” he stated finally.
Not to Bea.
To me.
I didn’t reach for the menu. “That wasn’t the goal.”
“No?” His brow lifted slightly. “From what I’ve read, you seem to draw attention without much effort.”
“You’re mistaking that for reaction,” I replied.
A small shift in his expression—interest, not approval.
“Is there a difference?” he asked.
“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.
“He’s been solid,” she interjected. “We’ve tightened messaging, adjusted tone. Media’s already starting to shift.”
Rafael’s gaze flicked to her, then back to me. “And you’re comfortable with that?”
“With what?” I asked.
“Being… managed.”
Bea’s head snapped up slightly, her eyes cutting to him. “That’s not?—”