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“There,” she replies, soft. “That’s nervous.”

I hold her stare. My chest tightens, the vulnerability sharpening into something I want to bite down on.

I’ve survived by staying ahead–of men, of threats, of hunger, of loss. I’ve survived by reading rooms, by predicting outcomes, by controlling variables. This… this is a variable I can’t pin down. A past I can’t rewrite. A truth that might turn everything into a different shape.

Lana leans forward slightly, as if she’s meeting me halfway across the table.

“Were you happy,” she asks, “believing his version?”

My instinct is to say it was simpler. To say it didn’t matter.

Instead, my throat tightens.

“Happy isn’t…” I stop. The word feels foreign. “Rio and I had each other.” I say instead.

“And if you really were taken,” she says, “then you had someone else first.”

My spine stiffens. “I remember nothing before Valentino,” I say.

Lana nods slowly, her voice careful. “And that makes you wonder what he erased.”

I don’t answer. The silence is an answer. A minute passes, the engines steady.

“What about Rio?” she asks. “How is he with all this?”

I look away instinctively, my gaze snapping to the window, the curve of the wing slicing through clouds. Mentioning Rio does that to me. It hits the part of my chest that’s been guarded my entire life.

“Rio shows nothing,” I say. “You know him.”

Lana’s eyes narrow slightly. “He shows things. Just not to everyone.”

I pull my gaze back to her. “I bet when he fucks you he does.” I smirk. “But he’s cold, trust me.”

“I don’t think he is.”

“He’s my brother. He’s the only constant I’ve ever had. And right now…” My fingers curl on the armrest. “Right now I don’t know what he feels.”

“Have you asked him?”

“I can’t reach him,” I say. “He listens, he moves, he handles things. Yet when I try to talk to him about this, it’s like he shuts a door in my face. Like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t care.”

“Of course he cares.”

“I think he doesn’t want to know.” I say. “I think he’d rather keep the story we had, even if it’s wrong.”

Lana’s eyes hold mine. “Then he’s protecting himself. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. It means he cares so much he can’t afford to unravel.”

The words land in me with a slow, uncomfortable truth.

I sit back, dragging a hand over my mouth, my thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. My stomach twists, not from altitude, from emotion I’d rather punch than process.

Lana watches me without pity.

“You’re allowed to be vulnerable,” she says quietly. “Not with everyone. Not in public. Yet here–right now–you don’t have to perform.”

My laugh is short and bitter. “Perform.”

“You do,” she says, simply. “You act tough. You speak tough. You hold the room with your shoulders and your silence.”