The drive home was painfully silent.Shawn refused to speak, and I didn’t dare to.
Judging from his face, it was either he’d hit me—or throw me out of the car.
When we arrived, he didn’t open the door for me like before. He simply stepped out, tossed the keys to the guard, and walked away without a glance.
I thought we’d cool off. Maybe talk.
But I was wrong.
The hostility had just begun.
And it started with coffee.
Not the comforting kind—
but the scorching, bitter kind.
The kind that splashes across crystal glasses and hand-sewn Italian rugs.
Not by accident—by intent.
“Clean it up.”
Three words.
Arrogant.
Icy.
Domineering.
I stared at the mess for a beat too long. Steam curled from the spilled pot on the boardroom table, dripping down the edge to the floor. No one moved.
