Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Eight — Fault Lines
The conversation did not begin as an argument.
That, Willow would later realize, was part of what unsettled her most. There was no raised voice, no sharp turn, no visible tension to warn her that they were stepping onto unstable ground. It began the way the most consequential conflicts always did, quietly, inside practicality, where intention surfaced before emotion had time to defend itself.
They were in the kitchen.
Late afternoon light rested across the counter, softened by the windows, the house holding the hour with its usual calm. Zana was down for her nap, the monitor silent, the quiet uninterrupted. Zane stood near the counter scrolling through something on his phone, attention divided but present. Willow was at the island, sorting through a small stack of papers she had taken from a drawer earlier that morning.
"I need to go to LA," she said casually, as though naming an errand rather than a decision.
