“Martha,” he said.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not that voice.
Not now.
I stood.
The chair scraped against the floor, loud enough that the waitress glanced over.
I smiled at her.
A perfect, polite, dead-inside smile.
Then I picked up my bag.
Caelin stood too.
Fuck him for being tall.
Fuck him for looking worried.
Fuck him for making worried look good.
“Firefly—”
“Don’t.”
The word came out so sharp even I felt it cut.
His jaw snapped shut.
Smart.
Finally.
I walked out of the café.
Not ran.
Never ran.
Women like me did not run from men. We exited premises with purpose, posture, and the kind of face that made people step aside before understanding why.
I made it out the front door, past the little tables on the sidewalk, around the corner, and into the narrow side street besid
