The words didn't echo.
They landed.
Julian's hands came up before he knew what he was doing—not pushing, just bracing against the table behind him. The edge bit into his palm, gave him something to hold onto. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Around them, the room locked up.
Nate's glass stopped halfway to his mouth. Gilbert didn't move at all, but something in his shoulders pulled tight, the easy slope gone. Even the bar noise seemed to pull back, like the space itself was holding its breath.
Franz watched Arianne.
Not Julian. Her.
His face gave nothing away, but his eyes tracked her like she was a wire pulled taut.
Julian swallowed. She could see it—the way his throat worked before he found his voice.
"Arianne—"
"You didn't think to mention it."
Her voice stayed low. Flat. She didn't need to yell. The grip on his collar was enough. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles—fast, out of rhythm.
"Three years," she said. "You've had three years."
"I didn't—"
