The tears hit before I could stop them. Silent, hot, humiliating. I ducked my head, pressing my fingers to my lips as if I could shove the memory back down. Not here. Not in this booth, not in daylight. But Aria's hand didn't move, her grip steady, unrelenting. And suddenly, I wasn't strong enough to hold it anymore. I thought I was fine? Why am I crying!?
Finally, I broke. The words tumbled out in a rush—about the gala, the drug, the blurred edges of reality, Clara's betrayal, and the two men waiting in that suite. My voice shook, faltered, cracked, but I didn't stop. I told Aria everything.
The pizzeria noise, which had been a warm, comforting blanket, suddenly felt grating and intrusive. The laughter from the family in the next booth sounded shrill, the clatter of silverware like tiny, sharp blows. Around us, life went on, oblivious. Inside our booth, the air had grown still and cold.
