Siena's POV
The stinging silence between us feels unbearable. Zion’s smirk is unwavering as he watches me, as though he expects me to crumble in front of him. His drink-drenched proposal lies on the floor, a crumpled mess of paper and ink. The liquid continues to pool, a slick sheen over the once-ordered chaos of my work.
But I’m not reacting the way he expects. There’s no scream, no frustration boiling over the surface. Instead, I gaze at the soaked paper, the words smeared beyond recognition. I feel no anger, no fire. I simply feel cold. Empty. As if the whole situation is beneath me. And maybe it is.
I lift my eyes slowly to meet his. Zion, ever the predator, watches me closely, but something flickers in his gaze—something like uncertainty, something I don’t think he’s used
