Page 52 of The Devil's Canvas

"Well, ladies, I hate to eat and run, but my lunch hour is pretty much up, and I have to stop at the store before I head back," Bella says, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

Rosalind smiles softly, standing to kiss her cheek. "It was good to see you, honey."

"Please be safe," I say.

"Always." Bella grins before pressing a quick kiss to my cheek and waving at the staff before heading out.

I watch her go, twisting my fork between my fingers.

Bella got a job running a program for women who’ve been trafficked. She’s doing a lot of good. Helping them get back on their feet.

She’s incredible at it. But it’s dangerous. And I can’t shake the feeling that one day, we’re going to lose her to it.

Rosalind hums in approval, her fingers circling the rim of her glass. “I’m so proud of her.” Just as I take a sip of water, she switches gears completely. “Speaking of which… Bella told me about the man you were dancing with at Melanie’s wedding.”

I choke. Actually choke. The water goes down wrong, and I have to press my fist against my chest to clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

Rosalind grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t remember.”

I do remember. Unfortunately. The way Julian held me, the way his voice curled around my name, the way my pulse betrayed me every time he looked at me. But I am not talking about this. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

“It was just a dance,” I say, forcing my voice into something neutral.

Rosalind’s brows lift, sharp and knowing. “Bella said it didn’t look like ‘just a dance.’”

Of course she did.

“Was he a friend of Melanie’s?” Rosalind asks, like it’s an innocent question.

I should lie. I should give her a simple answer and move on. But the truth presses against my teeth, and the way she’s looking at me—like she actually cares—unsettles me more than the question itself.

“No,” I say. And that should be the end of it. “He’s not. Just a guest, though.”

Rosalind doesn’t even hesitate. “I don’t believe you. He’s someone to you.”

I scoff, reaching for my water. “Why do you say that?”

She tilts her head, like she’s studying me, like I’m a painting she’s trying to decode. “Because, honey, if he wasn’t, you would’ve just said no to the dance.”

I freeze. She’s right.

If I hadn’t wanted to know him—even subconsciously—I would’ve just walked away. That’s what I do. I shut people out, push them away before they can hurt me. But that night… I didn’t.

I don’t like what that says about me.

Before I can shut this conversation down, she shifts again. “I know something happened with Melanie, and that reporter is onto something.”

My stomach tightens.

Rosalind isn’t one to pry. She barely talks about Melanie at all. She’s spent years avoiding it, staying out of the mess, out of the conversations, out of the headlines. And yet, she’s bringing it up now.

I force my expression into something neutral. “What do you mean?”

She exhales, slow and measured, studying me like she’s choosing her next words carefully.

“I mean,” she says, voice cooling, “she's involved in something. And I think you know exactly what I mean.”

I don’t answer. Because answering means acknowledging it.

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