She wasn’t expecting you.

The way her eyes widened — just for a second — when she entered the dining room said enough. Your brother hadn’t told her who would be there. Of course he hadn’t. He only talks about himself.

Shosanna follows, polite, shoulders stiff under her coat. She’s playing the role: composed, French, disinterested.

But you see it. The moment she glances at you. The flash of fear she hides under a practiced smile.

She remembers what you said in the quiet of her cinema. She remembers the lie.

She hasn’t looked at you since.

Your brother’s voice fills the room — heavy, arrogant. He’s talking about promotions, uniforms, medals, the way he always does when he thinks a woman is impressed. She’s not.

She nods along, bored. Until—

He says your name.

Introduces you like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t drag her here under orders. Like you’re not both sitting in a room of men who would kill her for breathing.

She stares at you, sharp now. Confused. Waiting.

Because that part — your name — you hadn’t lied about.