He swallowed. “It’s not what you think,” he began again, but the sentence sounded tired, as if he had borrowed it one too many times.

Claire slipped the certificate and transfers onto a nearby pedestal, weighed them with the bouquet, and stepped back. “You don’t owe me a scene,” she told Isabelle. “No one does. I just didn’t want to disappear quietly and let a lie take my place.”

Isabelle looked at Claire with something like gratitude and something like grief. “Thank you for telling me yourself.”

Claire nodded. She picked up her purse, took one long breath scented with roses and fairy lights, and turned to leave.

“Claire—wait,” Daniel called, the first hint of panic threading through his voice. “We can talk.”