Diana sat stiffly in the chair opposite the desk, her posture rigid, chin lifted in a way that had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with defiance.
The office felt smaller than it actually was, weighed down by silence and history and the kind of tension that had no intention of dissipating on its own.
Cole stood behind the desk, hands braced on either side of the documents she had brought. He hadn’t offered her a seat—she’d taken it herself. He hadn’t offered tea, or pleasantries, or even the courtesy of a smile. Instead, he’d done exactly what Alexander had asked of him.
He’d been professional.
It grated on him more than he liked to admit.
Diana was one of the few people who could still make something ugly twist in his chest without saying a single word.
And now her
