Not because she was imperfect. Not because scars frightened you. Because her body suddenly looked less like mystery and more like evidence. Evidence of a life you had not been told, a history not merely complicated but buried.
Before you could speak, someone knocked once on the suite door.
Then entered without waiting.
Three men in dark suits stepped inside, followed by a woman with silver hair and the posture of an attorney or a diplomat. You turned instinctively, fury flashing hot.
“What the hell is this?”
Celia closed her eyes for one second.
When she opened them again, the softness was gone. In its place was something colder. Older. Frightening in its control.
“It’s time,” she said.
One of the men handed the silver-haired woman a folder.
The woman looked at you with measured sympathy. “Mr. Eron Castillo, my name is Helena Ward. I serve as counsel to your wife.”
Your wife.
The phrase sounded wrong in her mouth, like she was naming a role in a play whose script you had never been shown.
“You can leave,” you told them, your voice low and dangerous.
No one moved.
You turned to Celia. “Tell them to get out.”
“I can’t.”
The answer struck you harder than a slap.
“Can’t?” You laughed once, unbelieving. “What do you mean, can’t?”
Celia stepped closer. “Because everything I told you about my feelings was true. But everything I didn’t tell you is why they’re here.”
Helena opened the folder.
