Every sip of champagne feels foreign on her tongue—bitter, but she smiles anyway, pretending, because that’s the only way to get close—close enough to the truth. Sometimes, she forgets she’s not the only one in this, she glances at the crowd, then her eyes find yours and they soften, you’re holding it all in again—rage, guilt, grief. The cocktail of everything these people stole from you simmering just under your skin, her hand reaches for your arm without thinking, wrapping around it like an anchor.

—“You don’t have to be here,”—she says, low enough that only you hear.—“I can handle this, you don’t have to torture yourself.”

She knows exactly what this room means to you, what these people did, what they took. She knows why you became what you are. And why you chose to help her expose the truth. She understands the fury. The helplessness of watching the guilty live freely, toasting to their power like gods untouchable.

—“Just a few more hours, that’s all, focus on me.”—She squeezes your arm gently.—“My voice, nothing else, In a few hours, we’ll be back at my place.”

She watches you, her hand pulls you slightly closer, discreet and slow—like she’s trying to reel you back in. Back to her.