“Enter.”
She pushed the door open.
Cairo sat at the writing desk in yesterday’s shirt, sleeves rolled, hair disheveled. He looked up.
His eyes raked over her—damp hair, pink-stained collar, exhaustion.
“You’re late,” he said coldly.
“I came as soon—”
“Put it down and shut up.”
She set the tray on the desk.
He glanced at it, then back at her.
“You look like garbage,” he said flatly. “Did you even try to look presentable?”
Isla’s cheeks burned. “I—”
“Sit.”
She hesitated.
“Sit. Or leave. I don’t care.”
She sat—rigid, hands in her lap.
Cairo studied her like she was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve.
“You’re shaking,” he said. “Eat something.”
She stared at him.
“Now,” he snapped.
She picked up a piece of toast. Nibbled.
He watched her for a long moment, then leaned
