The air was thick.
Swirling. Glowing, maybe?
Was it working?
I blinked through the fog, heart pounding like I was about to win the lottery—or get hit by a train.
But then…
A maid stepped through the smoke, holding a tray of something steaming. A soup.
“Sir, madam,” she said calmly, bowing her head.
Not a portal.
Not a time-slip.
Not an escape from this narrative prison.
Just a f*****g soup.
I was still on the floor, crying, defeated, apron-less—when Damian crouched beside me like I was some wounded creature in need of euthanizing.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“What do you think?” I snapped, mascara running down my cheeks like a bitter ex. “I’m sobbing into your imported Italian tiles because I failed to cook fish stew for your terrifying grandmother. So… peachy.”
Damian blinked.
