Bea didn’t react right away. Her eyes stayed on mine, unblinking, like the words hadn’t landed yet, like her brain hadn’t caught up to what I’d just said.
Then—they did.
“No.” Barely a sound. A breath more than a word.
My stomach dropped.
“Wha—” her voice caught, the control gone completely now. “What did you just say?”
The room snapped back into focus all at once.
Too sharp.
Too clear.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Because I already knew.
She didn’t know.
She hadn’t seen it.
She hadn’t—how?
Rafael leaned forward slowly, his gaze moving between us with deliberate precision.
“Explain,” he snapped.
Bea’s head turned toward him, her eyes wide now, her composure gone in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“I didn’t—” she started, shaking her head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—” Her hand came up to her stomach without thinking.
Bea looked between us, her breathing uneven, her hands braced against the table like she needed it to stay upright.
“This is not—” she started, her voice breaking. “This is not how this was supposed to happen.”
No.
It wasn’t.
But that didn’t change anything.
Her head snapped back toward me, something flashing through her expression now—fear, anger, disbelief, all colliding at once.
“How?” she shot back.
“I saw it. In the drawer.”
Bea pushed back from the table abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping sharply against the floor, heads turning from nearby tables at the sound.
“I need air,” she chocked.
She didn’t wait for a response.
The door swung shut behind her, the cold from outside cutting briefly into the warmth of the restaurant before sealing again.