Not Stella. Not my father. Not the women at university who exchanged stories over wine and assumed my silence meant experience too ordinary to discuss.
The photographs had built a version of me before I understood that people preferred versions to truth.
Niko had believed that version.
Perhaps everyone did.
“I haven’t done this before,” I said.
The room seemed to hold the words.
Niko did not speak.
I lifted my eyes.
His expression had changed completely.
Not triumph. Not amusement. Not disbelief.
Shock.
Pure and carefully hidden, but unmistakable.
“You mean marriage?” he asked.
I almost laughed.
“No.”
His gaze moved over my face as though searching for any sign that I was mocking him.
There was none.
“You’re saying—”
“Yes.”
The word came sharper than I intended.
“I am.”
He turned away.
For one terrible second, I thought he was angry.
Then he crossed to the window and placed both hands on the sill.
