The silence after his words was sharp and brittle, as if the air itself had tightened between them.
“I am Lana Pearson,” she said again, slower this time, every syllable deliberate, as if she were speaking to someone unstable rather than simply angry, “and I would appreciate it if you stopped this nonsense right now, because whatever story you built in your head about me, I can assure you it is made only of assumptions.”
Zayn did not interrupt her, though every muscle in his body was rigid, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his eyes fixed on her face as if he were trying to crack a code written under her skin.
“I have no relation with your father, Alexander,” she continued, her voice gaining strength the more she spoke, “and if you were man enough to approach him directly instead of pro
