The plush velvet of the lobby's waiting area chair did nothing to comfort her. Each minute that ticked by on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner felt like an hour, each one another layer of frost settling over Layana's heart. She could still see it—the way Isabella's manicured fingers had curled possessively around Darius's arm, the effortless way she commanded the space, the familiarity in her bold, dark eyes.
Is he still in there with her? What are they doing? The questions were a torment, a relentless loop in her mind. The memory of his kiss, so consuming and raw, felt like a lie. Had it just been a moment of convenient passion, so easily forgotten when a more sophisticated option presented itself?
She was so lost in her thoughts, a statue of jealous misery, that she didn't hear the approaching footsteps until they were right beside her.
"Waiting for a taxi, dear? I'm afraid you'll have a long wait. They rarely come to this part of the district unless called."
The voice was like silk wrapped around a dagger—smooth, elegant, and deadly sharp. Layana's head snapped up. Isabella Ricci stood over her, a vision of composed victory. She had reapplied her lipstick, a deep, bloody red that seemed to mock the memory of Layana's own kiss-swollen lips.
"I'm fine, thank you," Layana said, her voice coming out as a quiet, strained thing.Isabella's smile was a slow, cruel curve. She made a show of adjusting the cuff of her blazer, her eyes scanning Layana from head to toe with a dismissive flicker. "I see Darius has retained his... taste for foundlings. It's a peculiar habit of his, picking up strays and trying to polish them up. It never lasts, of course. They always show their rough edges eventually."
The insult was so blatant, so condescending, it stole the air from Layana's lungs. She felt a hot flush of humiliation creep up her neck.
"I am not a stray," Layana managed, clenching her hands in her lap to hide their tremble.
"Aren't you?" Isabella tilted her head, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. "The childhood friend from the little town, given a pity job. It's almost quaint. Let me give you some advice, little girl. Men like Darius Vitale don't end up with secretaries who blush when spoken to. They end up with partners. With women who understand power, who can help them build an empire, not just fetch their coffee."
She leaned in slightly, her expensive perfume a cloud of jasmine and night-blooming flowers that felt suffocating. "That little display I interrupted... it was cute. A momentary lapse. A bit of nostalgia. But the game is over now. The adults are here. Run along home."
Every word was meticulously chosen to dismantle her; to reduce the earth-shattering moment she'd shared with Darius to a pathetic, childish "display." The carefully constructed wall of her defiance crumbled, and pure, unadulterated hurt surged through the cracks. A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek. She hated herself for it instantly.
