Annabelle had noticed it the moment Natasha stepped into the room.

Her friend’s usual radiance...that almost unshakeable cheerfulness... seemed dimmed.

Natasha plastered on a smile and greeted everyone with her usual gusto, but something felt off.

There was a shadow behind her eyes.

There was a tension in her shoulders that even her immaculate posture couldn’t hide.

Dante, ever the observer, leaned closer to Annabelle as Natasha chatted with one of the staff. “She’s not herself,” he murmured.

Annabelle nodded, her eyes following Natasha as she gestured animatedly about the fitting schedule.

“She’s forcing it,” Annabelle whispered back. “But she won’t say anything unless she wants to.”

Dante’s hand brushed...