The morning tasted like resentment.
Aria blinked up at the ceiling, her arm flung dramatically across her face like a woman in mourning. Except she wasn't mourning.
She was seething.
Still.
Still tasting the chocolate on her finger. Still feeling the ghost of Leon's hands on her waist. Still furious, he'd had the audacity to win.
And worse — to walk away before she could burn him back.
She groaned into her pillow and threw the blanket off like it had personally betrayed her. Her skin still felt too warm, too tight, like her body hadn't caught up with the part where it was over. Except it wasn't. Not really. Not when her brain kept replaying every smirk, every look, every smug. "Thanks, Chef."
She stomped into the hallway barefoot, silk robe swishing behind her like a war flag. Down
