The walk to her car was ten seconds.
Ji Hanjun's hand closed around her wrist before she reached it.
She'd been expecting something: a word, a last appeal, maybe him following her out and trying to block her path. Not this. His fingers dug in hard enough that she pulled up short, pain shooting up her arm.
"Suyin." His voice was low. "Just hear me out."
She turned around slowly.
He looked different out here than he had inside. In the restaurant he'd been performing: calibrated, controlled, managing the room. Out here the composure had dropped. What was underneath it wasn't grief. It was frustration. The expression of someone who had expected a particular outcome and wasn't getting it.
"Let go of me," she said.
"We've been together four years. You can't just—"
"I can." She kept her voice even. "And I am. Let go of my wrist."
His fingers tightened. She watched his face and understood: he wasn't angry at losing her. He was angry at losing control. The distinction mattered.
