The house was exactly as Beatrice had imagined—elegant but warm, filled with soft lighting and the faint scent of something rich and savory lingering in the air. It was a home. A life. A world she had never been part of. She adjusted the cuff of her blouse as Ingrid led her through the hallway, heart pounding harder than it should have been. This was just dinner. Just a simple evening catching up with an old friend. And yet, her stomach twisted with unease, as if she had walked into something far more dangerous.

Ingrid stopped in the living room and turned to her with a warm smile, one that Beatrice had once convinced herself she could live without. A lie, of course. One of many.

"Before we eat, let me introduce you to my daughter," Ingrid said.

Beatrice had barely registered the words before someone entered the room. She felt it before she saw it—that subtle shift in the air, the weight of something heavy settling on her chest. And then, there she was. The woman who had pressed Beatrice against cool sheets just nights ago, who had left her aching and alone in a hotel room with nothing but the ghost of her touch.

For a brief, excruciating moment, time seemed to stretch. Her expression was unreadable, save for the flicker of something in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by an effortless, polite neutrality.

"This is Beatrice, an old friend of mine. We went to school together," Ingrid said, introducing them.

Beatrice swallowed, pulse hammering in her throat. She had always been good at masking her emotions, but this—this was something else entirely. Her mind scrambled for something, anything, but all she could do was nod, force her lips into a neutral curve.

"It's nice to meet you," Beatrice said, her voice coming out steady and controlled. A miracle, really, considering the way her fingers curled slightly against her palm, desperate to hold onto something solid. She responded with a small nod, her tone casual, easy. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't—

"Oh?" Ingrid's voice cut through her thoughts.

Beatrice's eyes flickered toward Ingrid, who was watching her with mild curiosity. Too perceptive for her own good.

"You looked surprised. Do you two know each other?"

For a split second, Beatrice felt the sharp edge of panic press against her ribs. She could still taste her on her lips, feel the ghost of her breath against her skin. But none of that could show. None of it could exist.

"No. I don't believe we've met before," Beatrice lied smoothly. Clean, effortless. But inside, she felt like she had just swallowed glass.

Ingrid hummed, seemingly satisfied, and before Beatrice could fully recover, another voice entered the space—deeper, warmer. Matthias. Ingrid's husband. The man she had spent years resenting without ever truly knowing.

"Beatrice, welcome," he said, extending a hand that she took, ignoring the way her stomach clenched at the sight of the perfect domestic picture before her. Ingrid, smiling beside her husband. Standing poised and relaxed. A family.

"Come, let's eat before the food gets cold," Matthias said.

Beatrice followed them into the dining room, her movements precise, careful. But when she reached the table and saw the seating arrangement, her composure nearly cracked. She was directly across from her.