Still nothing.
A flicker of frustration crossed his face, subtle but visible.
“Just bring her a white wine,” he said to Elise, his tone shifting back into that controlled neutrality.
Elise nodded, but as she turned to leave, something held her there.
It was the look in Lillian’s eyes.
She had seen it before—not in a restaurant, not in a setting like this, but at home, across a small kitchen table, in the way Jonah sometimes watched conversations happen around him, aware of them but not part of them, separated by something invisible yet absolute.
Elise hesitated for just a moment, aware of the risk, aware of Marjorie’s watchful presence somewhere in the room.
Then she turned back.
Instead of speaking, she raised her hands.
Her movements were slow, deliberate, shaped by years of practice that had become second nature.
