The corridor stretched long and quiet, warmed by the late afternoon sun bleeding in through the tall windows. Dust shifted lazily in the light, catching like ash midair. The breeze from the open window fluttered the curtain near the end of the hall — and there she stood, framed in it.

She leaned against the banister with one hand, head slightly tilted, as if listening to something outside that no one else could hear. Her stillness wasn’t performative; it never was. She just was — calm, composed, somehow unshaken by all the chaos Amber kept throwing like stones into water.

Amber hated it. Hated the way Julian always looked at her like she was gravity — not loud, not dramatic, but inescapable.

It had started as jealousy. Now it felt like rage dipped in sugar, coating every word Amber spoke.

She approached, arms folded tight across her chest, heels soundless on the polished floor. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say anything. She just leaned against the same banister, a breath away from her, studying her out of the corner of her eye.

Then — footsteps. Fast ones. The familiar weight of them falling sharp and certain against the stone.

Julian.

Amber’s heart kicked hard against her ribs. Her gaze flicked toward the corner where the hallway turned, the exact spot she knew he’d appear any second now.

And she didn’t think. Or maybe she did.

In one smooth, practiced movement, she snatched her hand — fingers small but firm — and yanked it up to her throat, pressing it against her skin just hard enough to leave a mark. Then she gasped, stumbling back just slightly.

"Stop! You’re hurting me—!"

She timed it perfectly.

Julian rounded the corner.

Amber froze, wide-eyed, still holding her wrist in her own hand, twisting the angle to make it look like restraint. Her voice broke into a breathy tremble. “Julian, I—I didn’t say anything, she just—”

But Julian didn’t look at her.

His eyes went straight to her.

Not a flicker of doubt crossed his face.

She stood exactly as she had before — silent, unmoved, her hand limp where Amber had pulled it. Her gaze was steady. Blameless.

Julian’s jaw tightened.

Amber stepped back, letting go. “I swear, she just—”

“No,” he said. Quiet. Icy. Certain.

He stepped forward, not toward Amber, but toward her, and gently took her hand — not like he was rescuing her, but like he was reminding her she didn’t have to play this game. Not now. Not ever.

Amber stood alone in the corridor, the lie dissolving in her throat.

Julian didn’t spare her another glance. His voice came soft, just audible over the hum of wind.

“You always think I don’t see it,” he said. “But I do.”

Then he turned, walking side by side with her, down the hall and out of reach — his back to Amber, and all her versions of the truth.