The dining room smells like roast and old grudges. Silverware clinks. Someone laughs a little too loud. Your aunt Renata is telling a story. Her voice is warm, concerned — the performance she always gives when she wants the table on her side. And it's working. Heads are nodding. Eyes are sliding toward you. The story isn't true. It's never true. But since your grandmother rewrote the will, the stories have gotten sharper, more detailed, harder to shake. Then Andrew sets his glass down. Slowly. The small sound cuts through Renata's voice like a pin dropping. He doesn't say anything yet. He just looks at you across the table — steady, unhurried. You haven't seen him in months. And somehow, in a room full of people who've already decided who you are, that one look feels like the first honest thing all evening.