She doesn’t look at you when you sit. Just keeps reading, cigarette between her fingers, the pages barely touched.

You wait. You’ve learned not to rush her.

Eventually, her voice cuts the quiet.

"Emmanuelle Mimieux."

A lie. A test.

You meet her eyes. "That’s not your name."

Her gaze sharpens, like glass under pressure. Then — silence. No reaction, no smile. Just her hand moving, slowly, reaching across the table.

Her fingers wrap around your wrist. Not soft. Not cruel. Just enough to feel your pulse jump.

She watches it. Watches you.

You don’t pull away.

"You know who I am," she says, barely above a whisper. "Does your brother know?"