She felt the blood drain from her face. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Rachel's eyes were cold, hard, nothing like the vapid socialite mask she usually wore. "Ask around. Ask anyone who's been here longer than five minutes. Thallos is charming andattentive and absolutely wonderful—until he's not. Until he's found the next conquest and you're standing there wondering what you did wrong."
"You're jealous." Lila stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "You've been after him for months and he's not interested, so you're trying to poison the well."
"I'm trying to help." Rachel's smile didn't waver. "Consider it a public service. Some of us have to learn the hard way that satyrs don't do commitment. That's literally what they're known for—parties and wine and temporary pleasures. It's in their nature."
"That's a stereotype?—"
"It's biology. Ask him about the traditional mating cycles sometime. Ask him why he's never had a relationship last longer than a season." Rachel tilted her head, studying her with something that might have been genuine pity buried under all the venom. "You seem nice. Too nice for this, really. I'd hate to see you become another cautionary tale."
She turned on her designer heel and walked away, leaving silence in her wake.
Lila dropped back into her seat. "What a complete and utter?—"
"Don't."
"Mari—"
"She might be right."
The words came out flat, nothing like her usual careful diplomacy. She stared at the table, seeing nothing, while her mind replayed every moment with Thallos through this new, poisoned lens.
The charm. The persistence. The way he always seemed to know exactly what to say, exactly how to touch her, exactly when to push and when to pull back.
What if it wasn't real? What if she was just the latest in a long line of women who'd fallen for the same routine?
*But he stopped,* whispered a desperate voice. *He stopped when he could have had everything.*
Or maybe he stopped because he'd gotten bored. Because the chase was more exciting than the catch. Because once she'd stopped resisting, she'd lost whatever appeal she'd held.
"Marigold." Lila reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Listen to me. Rachel is a bitter, jealous woman who can't stand seeing anyone getting something she wants. You cannot let her get in your head."
"What if she's not wrong?"
"She is. I've seen the way he looks at you?—"
"You've met him once."
"And Torin has known him for years. They're friends, Mari. Actual friends. And Torin says?—"
"I don't want to hear what Torin says." She pulled her hand back, wrapping both arms around herself. "I'm sorry. I just… I need to think."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She knew, without looking, that it would be him.
She looked anyway.
*Good morning. I hope you slept. Can we talk?*
Such simple words. Such ordinary words. Nothing about them should have made her chest ache like this.
She thought about the grove. About the magic he'd admitted to. About how he'd known—*known*—what that place could do, and brought her there anyway.
What if the magic was the point?
The thought was ugly and unfair and she hated herself for thinking it. But once it was there, she couldn't make it go away.
"I need to go," she said, standing abruptly. "I'm sorry, Lila. The shop… I have deliveries…"
