Aiden's eyes dropped to the wound on my ankle.
His pupils contracted—just barely.
But that was all.
He didn't ask who did it. He didn't ask if it hurt.
He just frowned slightly, as if trying to recall something.
A few seconds later, recognition dawned. A mocking smile curled his lips.
"So the blind idiot who got in the way—that was you."
He remembered now.
But there was no guilt. Not even a flicker.
Instead, he looked almost amused, settling into the sofa with casual indifference and lighting a cigarette.
"Miranda, since you've already seen everything, I won't bother pretending anymore."
He exhaled a ring of smoke. Through the haze, his features blurred, but his voice cut through—sharp as a blade left out in the cold.
"Yes, I was out having fun."
"I'm the Stephens heir. In circles like ours, playing the game is just how it works."
"But you—"
He pointed at me with the hand holding his cigarette, contempt plain in his eyes. "As Mrs. Stephens, can't you manage even this much grace?"
"So you got hit with a glass. You didn't die. Is that really worth giving me this corpse face?"
"Don't forget—when you married me, you had nothing."