The drive home was quiet—not tense, not angry—just the kind of silence that sits heavy in the air, like both of us were breathing through something we didn't know how to name yet.
The city blurred past the windows, late afternoon sun washing everything in a pale gold. Normally, Val would be talking—commenting on pedestrians' outfits, ranting about traffic, mocking my playlist choices—but today, she just stared out the window, fingers lightly pressed to her lips, lost somewhere deep.
I kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, close enough to hers to reach if she needed it. She didn't. Not yet.
It wasn't until we pulled into our driveway, engine idling into silence, that she finally spoke.
Soft. Barely there.
> "My brother might have just sold his shares of the company to a fraudster."
Her voice wasn't shaky. It wasn't dramatic. It was worse—steady. Controlled. Like she was holding herself together by a single thread.
I turned to her. "Val…"
