She told herself she was reading too much into it. That she was tired. That her mind was still spinning from Simone’s insinuations. But the gut feeling wouldn’t leave. It didn’t matter that nothing explicit had happened—something unspoken had taken root, and it was growing. That night, Clara confronted Marc.
They were in the bedroom, the kind of silence between them that hums with tension. Clara was standing near the closet, folding her arms. Marc was lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone. “Do you like her?” Clara asked quietly. He didn’t look up. “What?”