Cross’s gaze locked onto Marceline, a slow, calculating smile curling the edges of his lips — the kind of smile that didn’t promise warmth but hinted at a chess master savoring his next move. The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken battles, bruised egos, and words better left unsaid but impossible to ignore.
But Marceline wasn’t done yet. She drew a steady breath, voice low but sharp, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. “One more thing,” she said, eyes narrowing just a fraction, “you should work better on your own act.”
Cross’s smile faltered for a heartbeat before regaining its measured control. “I know,” he said smoothly, “it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have left you at the altar. But I had an emergency at the company.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’
