BLAINE
Walking down the corridor to Malia’s room, I caught my reflection in the tall window glass—composed, unreadable, cold—just the way it needed to be. Once I reached her door, I knocked.
“Come in,” she called out, stronger than I’d expected.
The door swung open with ease.
She sat on the windowsill, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the waves in the distance.
The moment her gaze landed on me, the softness vanished.
“Oh. It’s you.”
The disappointment clung to every word.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I replied evenly. “Isabella asked me to give you the tour. So you don’t accidentally wander into the gun vault or worse—back into my room.”
Her head turned, brows raised. A beat passed before a smirk tugged at her lips.
“Should I be worried about what’s in your room, Marcello?”
