Page 78 of Babies for the Big Shot
A hesitation.
A blink that takes too long.
A sliver of silence where her usual precision should be.
I don’t let it go. “You told me you weren’t behind the photo from the gala. That someone else sent it. That you just happened to know the source. Still sticking to that?”
Her fingers tighten on the coffee cup.
“Mmhmm,” she hums. “Is this where you start interrogating me over oat milk and pleasantries?”
“Why lie?”
“I don’t lie,” she says, with that practiced flip of her hair. “I curate.”
My arms cross. My jaw locks.
“You’re slipping.”
Her smile twitches. Too taut.
I lean in just enough. “She walked into your territory and you didn’t like it. So you went for the jugular.”
“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve.”
“Or less than you want.”
Silence. And then she looks up.
Not the smirking version of her, the one she shows the world. No, this one cracks around the edges. Just enough for me to see it.
The calculation behind the charm.
The fury behind the calm.
“I wanted you to remember,” she says quietly. “What we were.”
“We were a mistake.”
Her eyes flare. “You didn’t always think that.”
I say nothing.
She hates that.
After a moment, she lets out a sigh, deliberate, attention-seeking, calculated to land. It’s always a performance with her.
“Fine,” she says, lips pressed into a line. “Yes. I sent it.”
Flat. Unapologetic.
“I took it the night of the gala.”
I stare at her, the rage quiet and simmering. “So while I was waiting on you to help me figure out who was behind it, you were sitting on the answer.”
She lifts a shoulder. “You wanted intel. I gave you impact.”
“You lied.”
