the music continues, but it feels thinner now, drawn too tight across the room, as though something in it has shifted just slightly out of place. not enough for anyone to name it, only enough to be felt. clarissa does not turn at once. she stands with her glass still in hand, the stem held lightly between her fingers, watching the reflection of the chandeliers fracture across its surface, gold splintered into something softer, less certain. after a moment, she lowers it to the table, careful and precise. her fingers brush the rim where her mother had touched it. ❝ people were going to talk anyway, ❞ she says, her voice quiet, even, as if the words have already settled somewhere deeper than this conversation. her gaze drifts past samira’s shoulder, catching on the careful choreography of the room, the way laughter comes a fraction too late, the way eyes move away just after they should have. the performance of not watching has always been more obvious than watching itself. ❝ they always do. ❞ only then does she look at her. there is no sharpness in it, no open defiance, just something steadier, something held too long to still be easily concealed. ❝ cassian just makes it easier for them, ❞ she continues, softer now, though not uncertain. his name is placed without hesitation, without apology. ❝ what you’re asking isn’t whether i’ve addressed it, ❞ she says after a moment, her tone unchanged, though the words land heavier now. ❝ it’s whether i’m going to. ❞ the words settle between them, measured, intentional, and then, almost as an afterthought, though nothing about it is accidental, she shifts just slightly, enough to soften the edge of the moment, enough to make what comes next sound easier than it is. ❝ i’m happy with jordan, ❞ she says, and this time her voice is lighter, smoother, the kind of calm that sits too neatly to be entirely untouched. her gaze drifts again, not quite meeting her mother’s, as if the room itself might hold the shape of the truth more gently than she can. ❝ you know that. ❞ a small pause. her fingers trace once, absentmindedly, along the base of the glass. ❝ cassian is— ❞ she stops, just for a second, the word catching in a place she does not allow herself to examine, before continuing with quiet precision, ❝ he’s my closest friend. he always has been. ❞
