The rain hadn't started yet, but the air outside the stone terrace was heavy with the scent of it—like metal and moss crushed beneath footfalls that hadn't arrived. Atlas leaned into the armrest with both elbows now, his darkened hair falling into his eyes as if to hide the storm behind them. Claire sat opposite, back straight, like she was made of carved obsidian and silk. The tension between them didn't crackle. It simmered—low, slow, and relentless.
"Claire, I get it." His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The edges were sharp enough to slice. "Isabella is a monster in her own right. But she's not stupid."
He held her gaze, waiting for the rebuttal that didn't come. Instead, Claire's lips parted slightly, and then closed. A queen without a crown in this moment, just a woman holding back fire behind her teeth.
"She's been calling me nonstop for days," Atlas continued. "If I ghost her now, she'll vanish into her own schemes and take that psycho mage with her."
