The silence in my office was suffocating.
The kind that crawled under your skin, clawing at your ribs until your chest felt too tight to breathe.
I sat behind the massive oak desk, pretending to read over border reports, rogue activity breakdowns, and council petitions—but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying the image of her walking out on me.
The sound of her voice.
The slap.
Her anger.
My failure.
Penelope.
Every time I blinked, I saw her.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk, trying to focus. The numbers blurred. I couldn’t tell if I was reviewing the updated trade tariffs with the East Ridge Pack or reading the same damn paragraph over and over.
“Status report on rogue threat density…” I muttered, skimming the same line again.
It wasn’t sticking.
None of it was.
I’d
