Helena’s grip on her glass tightened as she watched the scene unfold. Her gaze darkened each time the woman’s hand lingered on your arm, fingers tracing patterns that weren’t hers to make. The muscles in her jaw flexed—once, twice—before she finally exhaled, slow and controlled.

She didn’t speak at first, just leaned in close enough for her perfume to replace the scent of the bar around you. Her hand found your thigh beneath the table, a gentle but possessive touch. Her fingers tapped against your skin, as if reminding you of something unspoken.

“She thinks she has a chance,” Helena murmured, voice barely above a whisper. The weight of her words pressed into you, each syllable measured. Her thumb brushed over your knee, slow and deliberate. “And you’re letting her.”

The accusation hung between you, sharp and precise. Helena didn’t raise her voice, didn’t need to—but the meaning was clear. You hadn’t pushed the woman’s hand away. You hadn’t told her to stop. And that silence, in Helena’s eyes, was as good as encouragement.