I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Of course they are.”
Daniel’s eyes softened. “Soph,” he said, “you don’t owe them your life just because they’re suddenly interested.”
I looked down, feeling the old reflex to excuse, to soften. Then I remembered the kitchen corridor at the Wellington estate. My name card by the catering door.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I’m just… learning how to act like it.”
The real test came sooner than I expected.
A week later, my mother called and tried to sound casual. “Sophia,” she said, “the Wellingtons are having a small dinner. Important people. They asked if you and Daniel could stop by.”
“I can’t,” I said immediately.
“It would be good for Clare,” my mother pressed. “Ethan’s parents want her to feel… included.”
I pictured Clare at a table full of people who had once agreed to hide me. I pictured her smiling too hard, trying to be enough.
“Then they should include her because she’s family,” I said, “not because she can deliver the president’s son to their living room.”
My mother’s silence crackled.
“You’re being difficult,” she said finally, frustration leaking through.
“No,” I replied, voice steady. “I’m being clear.”