(Michelle POV)
For a moment, nobody moved.
The laughter had dissolved too quickly, like soap bubbles in cold air. The clatter of cutlery faded into the background. Even the ambient music of the café seemed to pull away, as if recognising the fragile quiet settling over our table.
It was the kind of silence that felt heavy — not because it demanded anger, but because it held too much truth.
Lara sat straight-backed, her usual poised arrogance muted into something careful. Controlled. Her fingers tightened faintly around her cup, knuckles paling, as if she were bracing herself against something unseen. Not defensive. Not hostile. Just… wounded pride pretending to be composure.
And I knew, in that moment, the choice wasn't about who was right.
It was about who decided the room would live or break.
My heart didn't pound.
It didn't race.
It ached.
