“Who the hell are you,” he demanded, his voice dropping, “and where is Lana?”
Silence swallowed the space between them.
And in that silence, something fundamental began to crack.
--
He raised his voice, sharp and cutting, and that was when she finally pushed back.
“I assure you,” she said clearly, her spine straightening as she met his glare head-on, “that I am Lana Pearson, Mr. Specter. And I would appreciate it if you stopped chasing me.”
The words were firm, controlled, almost rehearsed—and with every syllable, the certainty inside him grew like a slow, sickening burn.
This was not her.
Not the woman from the island.
That Lana had been all raw edges and unfiltered emotion, too honest for her own good, wearing her fear and desire openly, like she didn’t yet know how to hide them
