Eva paced back and forth in her living room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her mind was racing, replaying Ambrosia's words over and over. "You may not be just Eva Sinclair." What the hell did that even mean?
She shot a sharp look at Leonard, who sat comfortably on her couch, completely unbothered by the chaos swirling in her head. "Alright, start talking. Now."
Leonard barely spared her a glance. "About what?"
Eva threw her hands up. "Don't play dumb! About what that witch said! About me!"
Leonard exhaled slowly, like she was an impatient child asking too many questions. "It doesn't concern you."
Eva blinked. Then she laughed—a bitter, incredulous laugh. "It doesn't concern me? You're joking, right? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like my whole damn existence might be a lie!"
Leonard finally looked at her, his crimson eyes unreadable. "What do you want me to say, Eva? That you're special? That you're different? Fine. You are. But knowing won't change anything."
Her stomach twisted. "Then tell me anyway."
Silence stretched between them. Leonard's gaze held something she couldn't quite place—hesitation, maybe? Regret? It unsettled her more than anything else.
Finally, he stood up, walking to the window. "The past is better left buried."
Eva's hands balled into fists. "You mean your past. But what if it's mine too?"
Leonard's shoulders tensed, just slightly, and she knew she had hit something—something he didn't want to face. But instead of an answer, all she got was his cold, infuriating indifference.
She exhaled sharply. "Fine. Keep your damn secrets. I'll find out on my own."
Turning on her heel, she stormed toward her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. But even as she buried herself under the covers, sleep wouldn't come.
Because for the first time in her life, Eva wasn't sure if she was really… her.