Natasha’s POV.
Andrew looked at me like I had just confessed to robbing a bank.
“Why did you say it was Amara’s diagnosis?” he asked, brows drawn together, his voice low but firm. “You had the answer. You said it first. I heard you.”
I shifted awkwardly, fiddling with the strap of my bag. I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not here in the hallway, not with him, not with anyone.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled.
“It does, Natasha,” he insisted, stepping in front of me so I couldn’t just walk away. “You let her take credit. Again.”
“Andrew, please,” I said quietly, trying to stay calm. “It’s not your concern.”
He exhaled, clearly frustrated. “So, what? You’re just going to keep letting her walk all over you? Pretend it’s nothing until she completely ruins your confidence?”
I looked up at him, tired and already worn down from the day. “It’s easier this way.”
“No, it’s not.” He took a step back, visibly trying to hold back more words. “You’re better than that. You shouldn’t have to sh
