I continued sharpening the blade. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone was my only response.
"Elena." His tone sharpened with impatience.
I stilled my hand and finally looked up at him. The corner of my lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close enough to unsettle.
"I will be there."
For a brief moment, he clearly froze. Whatever he had expected—protest, tears, the quiet compliance of a woman who knew her place—this was not it.
"One hour," he said at last, recovering. Then, as if the words were an afterthought: "Don't make mistakes."
I inclined my head. "You go ahead."
"We go together." It was not a request.
I tilted my head, letting silence stretch between us like wire pulled taut. The rain had begun to tap against the windows, soft and insistent.
"I said I will arrive."
He watched me for a long moment, dark eyes searching for something—defiance, perhaps, or the cracks in my composure that would give him purchase. Finding neither, he turned and left.
The moment the door closed, I slipped the blade into my bag.