The tension at the table hung like a storm cloud about to break, heavy and electric. Unspoken words crackled in the air as Rafael sat in silence, processing Bianca's carefully chosen words. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the white tablecloth—a rare tell, a slip betraying the fury coiling beneath his controlled exterior.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm. A blade sheathed, but sharp enough to cut. "Jason, you say? And Eliana knows this?" His head tilted slightly, grey eyes hidden behind the practiced haze of feigned blindness. "Tell me more, Bianca. Why do you think we've let it slide?"
