She wanted to scream. Maybe throw something. Or just curl up and ugly cry into a pillow. Why now? Seriously, why after all this time—months of radio silence and backstabbing—did he think he could just waltz back in and poke at her feelings like nothing happened? The worst part? Some traitorous piece of her actually wanted to believe him.Ugh.
She wandered the halls, barely awake, honestly just shuffling along like some half-baked zombie. Her feet? Yeah, they had their own agenda—dragging her straight to the breakfast room before her brain had even clocked in for duty.
And that smell, man—coffee hit her first (absolute lifesaver), then something sugary, maybe croissants or whatever, and of course, there was that sharp, lemony whiff from those damn flowers people kept dumping around like i
