She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

enough to flash a long, polished knee.

Then she lifted her chin and smiled at me with the soft cruelty of a woman who knew she had permission.

Graham saw me.

He did not move his hand.

He did not look startled.

He only leaned toward me, his voice low and neat.

“Evelyn, don’t make a scene.”

The words landed with the dull weight of a familiar hand.

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