The air inside the speeding luxury van felt suffocatingly tight. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the hum of the tires on the asphalt and the heavy, shuddering sigh of the woman sitting beside her.
Then, the woman spoke. Her French was soft, laced with that same haunting, aristocratic sorrow.
"Je suis quelqu'un que tu ne devrais pas connaître," the woman murmured gently, her manicured fingers resting lightly on Aria's shoulder. "Quelqu'un que tu n'aurais jamais dû rencontrer."
From the front passenger seat, the deadpan translator delivered the English with robotic precision.
"She says she is someone you should not know, and never should have met."
Aria's chest heaved. Her tied hands twisted uselessly in the plastic zip-ties. "That doesn't answer my question!"
The woman continued, her tone dipping into a regretful whisper. "C'est notre erreur. Nous aurions dû mieux nettoyer la mort de ta mère."
