Isabella had just stepped into the stone palace, her slippers flapping softly against the cold ground, the air cool and faintly laced with the scent of wild mint and burning herbs. But none of that registered. Her mind was still an absolute mess.
Her mind was a battlefield. Thoughts clawed for dominance, colliding like waves in a storm—waves that all had one ridiculous red-eyed cause: Zyran.
Zyran, with his shameless flirting and devilish smirks. Zyran, with his stupid pout and that ridiculous line—"this one." Oh, who was he even calling this one?
That man.
That ridiculous, overconfident, sinfully hot menace of a man.
Her fingers twitched as she muttered under her breath. "How can someone as fabulous as me be this stressed out over one stupid walking red flag?" she hissed, then paused dramatically, pointing at herself with both thumbs. "Me. I am the main character. I've got the walk, the waist, the face, the everything."
